


flares

by huphilpuffs



Series: flares verse [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Disability, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Character Death, fibromyalgia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 84,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huphilpuffs/pseuds/huphilpuffs
Summary: Dan's body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he's long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn't the way to make himself happy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note that this story will go in depth about chronic pain and chronic illness, as well as some of the medicine surrounding those issues. If that's a trigger for you, please proceed with caution. I promise there will be no character deaths in this story.

“You did  _ what _ ?”

Dan winces. The screaming was expected, but it still seems to ricochet inside his skull. He should have waited until the ache at his temples had fully dissipated before calling his mum.

“I took a year out.”

“You dropped out.”

There’s an undertone of disappointment in her voice, a hint of worry he hates himself for being surprised by. Around him, the other students of his university mull through hallways, rush to meetings and lectures and the library. Their conversations are wisps at his ears.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I can come back next year if I want.”

She sighs. He ignores the implicit  _ but you won’t  _ that feels heavy over the phone.

“It’s fine, mum.”

To his right, two students are pressed against the wall, both with their heads buried in his textbook. To his left, a boy leans against a door with a pamphlet about the school’s clubs. Dan sighs and turns a corner, heads for the door to leave the building.

Over the phone, his mum swallows so loudly he can hear it. “Is it because- Are you sick again?”

He winces at that, too, pressing his shoulder to the door and ignoring the ache that blooms there. His throat is tight now, tears sting behind his eyes at the sudden burn of sunlight. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie.

He wonders if she knows that it is.

There’s too many seconds between that and his next words. A silence that makes his stomach churn and chest ache at the race of his heart. “I just- I’m not sure if law’s right for me and I guess it’s better to figure it out now than after I’ve gone through four years of uni, you know?”

She’s quiet. He’s halfway back to his dorm, desperately hoping to end the call before he gets there to avoid the overhearing ears of sort of friendly acquaintances.

A normal person, he figures, would just walk around the campus until the call ended. But Dan’s knees already hurt and he could feel fatigue prickling the muscles of his neck. Every bone in his body wanted today to end, to collapse against his pillows and ignore the doubt lingering in his gut.

“That makes sense, I suppose.”

He swallows back a sigh of relief.

“Are you staying in Manchester?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll find a place. Someone must be looking for a roommate. I already have a job. I’ll manage.”

Even over the phone, he can imagine the tight press of her lips, the stiff nod of her head. “Okay,” she says. “Let your father and I know if you need anything.”

“I will, mum.” He pauses. “I love you.”

His mum’s smile is audible. “I love you, too, bear.”

And the call ends.

He shoves his phone into his pocket. The door to his building is still too many steps away, so he lets himself take a break on a nearby bench, rubbing tears away with the heel of his palm.

\---

He gets back to his dorm at the time when most other people are gone. There’s a boy named Jonah sitting on the floor with a friend of his who’s here all the time and yet still nameless in Dan’s mind. A guy named Sam is sitting on the couch in the common area, hunched over his phone. A girl named Ellie pours over a textbook that’s splayed across her lap, and a girl named Taylor sitting beside her, staring into space.

Dan’s eyes are still brimmed red and he can feel the burn that lingers whenever he goes too long without blinking and he hopes no one notices. Hopes he can slip into his room without being noticed.

All he wants is to collapse onto his bed and not get up for the rest of the day. Ignore the whir of thoughts in his mind and the pressure of expectations weighing on his ribcage. Tomorrow, he can think about wedging all his belongings into a duffel bag and finding somewhere to live that isn’t the white brick walls of his dormitory.

His bones hurt. 

The door thuds closed behind him. He throws his phone at his pillow, lets his weight fall forward onto the mattress. The pressure hurts his chest. Lifting himself from the mattress makes his arms ache with the strain.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders when exactly it was that existing started burning with the same strain as exercise. 

He reaches for his pillow, wedges it between his torso and the uncomfortable hardness of his mattress so it cushions his weight, eases his breathing. His eyes still burn from afternoon sunlight, wrists are starting to wobble from holding his phone for too long. A tear wells, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Crying won’t help anything. It never does.

The knock on the door comes when his hand has fallen to clutch at the fabric of his duvet and his eyes have slipped closed. He sighs, feels the breath expand his bones until he’s forcing an exhale just to make the pain go away. Not a word falls from his lips as the door cracks open, falls closed again.

“You look like shit.”

He huffs out a laugh, pretends it doesn’t hurt. “Always so charming, Taylor.”

His eyes are still closed, but he can hear her footsteps, can imagine her walking over to prop herself up onto the wobbly old desk in the corner of the room. It’s become a routine, him with eyes closed, breathing through the pain, talking to the only person who cared enough to notice the red brim of his eyes and tentative stiffness of his steps.

The only person whose struggle he cared to notice, too.

“I feel like shit, so no judgement here,” she says.

He cracks an eye open at that. Taylor’s sitting on the desk now, feet resting on back of a chair, knees hugged to her chest. She has dark brown hair that’s grown greasy over the last few days and her pale hands are stained in smears of pen ink. Her green eyes crinkle as she offers a crooked smile. He forces himself to return it, letting his eyes fall closed again.

“Bio again?”

She groans. “Chem,” she says. “Remind me why I decided to go into the sciences?”

“For the same reason I decided to go into law?”

The truth of it all resonates through the room, Taylor’s laugh just a little too loud to hide the bitterness behind it. His hands clutch tighter at the duvet, even as his fingers quiver with exertion, the memories of late nights spent crying over textbooks they didn’t wanna be reading swirling heavy in his mind.

“Tay-”

“Did you do it?”

Her voice cracks. Dan feels it cut through his chest.

Though it hurts, he lifts himself from his pillow. The brick wall presses too hard against his spine, and fatigue draws his neck down. His feet are already tingling from the way they hang over the edge of the mattress. Taylor’s staring back at him, chin wedged in the valley between her knees, eyes watering already.

He doesn’t mention it. Just like she doesn’t mention it when he comes back from a lecture limping.

The words stay caught in his chest for a moment. Taylor, he thinks, might be the only thing he’ll miss about living here. Through all his certainty cuts the image of her staring into space, alone, stuck with her own mind the way he’s so annoyingly trapped in his body.

“Did you?” she asks again, less broken this time.

He shrugs. That hurts, too. “I’m taking the rest of the year off, and then I can come back if I want.” He pauses, waits for her to say something that never comes. “I have a week to find a place before I need to move out of here.”

That’s what has her nodding, pressing her forehead to her legs so he can’t see her face anymore. “I am happy for you,” she says, a muffled mumble that feels too somber, matches the dreary room they’re in a little too much. “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

A quiet  _ you should take care of yourself, too  _ tugs in his throat. He stares at his feet as he swallows it back. “I was failing anyway.”

She huffs at him. “Still.”

And doesn’t say another word.

\---

An hour later, his weight has fallen forward, back onto his pillow. His phone has chimed with a message from his mum telling him that his dad and brother wish him luck. Taylor has dropped from her precarious spot balancing between the edge of a desk and a chair, onto the floor with her textbook sitting in front of her.

They still haven’t said another word. He’s used to her presence in his room by now, to the lack of expectation that comes with her company. 

There’s a law book sitting on his nightstand, an essay he was still planning on writing last night, when he wasn’t quite sure how today’s meeting would go. His eyes have finally stopped burning enough for him to stare at it, let the realization settle that he’s actually leaving uni.

For a year.

And then coming back. Maybe. Probably.

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. His duvet is tangled around his legs and Taylor has stopped flipping through the pages of her biology homework. 

“Feeling any better?” she asks.

He hums. “Little bit.” His ribs still ache. There’s still a swirl of discomfort at his temples, and a painful prickling at the soles of his feet. “How’s bio?”

Taylor groans. “Better than chemistry, I guess.”

Part of Dan still wants to remind her that she could make a change, too. Leave for a bit, drop out completely, try to change the subject of her degree. Anything to take the pained edge out of her voice. But he doesn’t.

Instead he says, “Did I tell you I got a job?” and watches her head dart up because they both know he hasn’t shared that yet.

“You did?”

He shrugs. “I figured I needed something to convince possible roommates I could pay rent.”

Taylor stares. She does that a lot, lips twisting and brows furrowing with thoughts he’s learned to predict with time. Her hands smooth over her legs as her gaze trips over his arms, his legs. 

“Will you-”

His eyes slip closed. She falls quiet. He can hear her fidgeting with the page of her textbook, her fingers tapping patterns against the floor. 

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “It’s nothing.”

He hears Taylor’s sigh, knows she’s still staring at him even as he keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

Behind them flash images of somber memories from high school, of days spent dragging himself out of bed hurting so badly tears welled at the corners of his eyes. Of working with shaking hands and a spinning head and his boss asking if he was okay until he left home to just about collapse onto his bed.

And to go to school the next morning.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats.

Taylor doesn’t point out that he’s trying to convince himself.

\---

She leaves when it starts to get dark outside and Dan’s starting to struggle to stay awake. His body is still draped over pillows, bones heavy and muscles tired even though he’s done nothing but lay down since he got back to the dorm. Taylor closes her biology textbook and laptop, offers a sad smile as she slips out of the room.

Dan’s sigh heaves at his chest as he rolls onto his side. He should sleep. He has training tomorrow. But he’s grown too used to the way exhaustion draws at his bones as sleepiness fails to cloud his mind.

The brightness of his phone screen still lights up the room around him. He notices that the paint on the brick walls is peeling, that dust flits through the air. His wrists ache from the way he’s holding his phone, but he’s too stubborn to admit defeat over something so minute.

It’s been a moment. The brightness fades. He taps the screen to bring it back, with no intention of actually doing anything.

Another moment passes. He taps the phone screen again. Then a third time. And then there’s another knock at his door.

He turns rolls onto his other side with a groan. Taylor’s standing there again. Her loose t-shirt falls too wide over her shoulders, one peeking out from the neckline. Her biology book is gone. He notices, not for the first time, how tired her eyes look.

“You okay?”

She nods. Steps into the room. Her footsteps are muffled by the bunch of fabric at her feet, since her pyjama pants are always too long. One she reaches the side of the bed, she holds out a fist, drops a few pieces of paper on his pillow and dim-again phone.

“I got you these,” she says. “They’re phone numbers of people looking for roommates.”

His laugh comes out in a half-hearted puff of air. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You could just say thank you, you know.”

“Whatever.”

Taylor’s response is a laugh, the same dry kind that Dan swears haunts the dreary halls of the dormitory. She turns around without a word, stops to lean against the doorframe.

“Dan?” He hums. “I suggest you message that guy Phil first. He reminds me of you, sorta. I think it could be a good match.”

He nods, presses his head deeper into his pillow as he does so. “Thank you.”

The door falls closed. He listens even though he can’t hear the muffled sound of Taylor’s footsteps, and taps his phone screen so it lights up the room again.

\---

He waits an hour. Stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest that comes with nighttime, the voices in his head reminding him that he was supposed to leave the school with a law degree and is instead leaving with debt and nothing to show for it. The ones that sound too much like memories from years ago telling him he had no good reason to drop out, that it’s all in his head, a figment-

His phone screen goes bright. He reaches for it, finds a text message from Taylor lighting up the screen.

_ Taylor: did you call? _

_ Dan: no _

_ Taylor: text? _

_ Dan: nope _

_ Taylor: please can you just do it? _

_ Taylor: i’m trying to help you here _

He heaves, huffs out a  _ fine  _ even though she can’t hear him. He pulls open a new message, his fingers going numb as he types out the number. His gaze flits between the paper and his phone screen, double-checking it once, and again, and again.

_ Dan: Hi is this Phil who’s looking for a roommate? _

It’s almost midnight. He doesn’t expect a response, but one comes almost immediately.

_ 07617785439: Hi! That would be me :) _

_ 07617785439: Have to admit it’s a relief to have someone text instead of call. _

Dan smiles, feels a warm sense of empathy in his chest as he quickly adds to number to his contact list.

_ Dan: is the other room still open? _

_ Phil: Yup! No one’s been a good match yet. _

_ Phil: You interested? _

_ Dan: no I just make a habit of texting random people looking for roommates. _

_ Dan: of course I am _

_ Phil: I was just making sure! _

_ Phil: Wanna come see the place? We can meet too. _

_ Phil: I kinda don’t want to hate my roommate. _

_ Dan: wow wonder why _

_ Dan: but sure _

_ Dan: when does it work for you? _

_ Phil: I should be home by 5 tomorrow if you wanna stop by? _

_ Dan: okay should work for me _

_ Dan: send the address? _

Phil does, with a smiley face at the end that has Dan rolling his eyes even as he mirrors the emoticon. He quickly sends a thank you message back before closing the conversation with Phil. There’s another text from Taylor.

_ Taylor: I really hope you like your future roommate more than I like mine. _

_ Dan: snoring again? _

_ Taylor: I mean is a little sleep too much to ask for around here? _

The laugh that bubbles in his chest feels genuine, and he lets his head fall back against the pillow. His ribs still ache and there’s swirling dread in the back of his mind about training tomorrow. Sleepiness is still unattainable and he knows he’ll need medication to get any proper rest. 

But sometimes he’s actually good at ignoring all the painful parts of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

“You okay, Howell?”

Dan blinks. The fabric of his uniform is cheap and scratchy and ignites burning crackles of pain under his skin. The shoes are clunky and make his feet ache after standing for so long. His ankles feel like they’re about to collapse under his weight. And he’s not entirely sure how long ago he stopped listening.

The employee charged with giving him a tour of the store is staring back at him, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl drawing at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” mumbles Dan.

He’d just forgotten how big Tescos could be, apparently.

And how bad he was at staying steady on his feet for any period of time.

The employee—Dan’s already forgotten his name—stares for a moment longer, then shrugs. “You have to learn to pay attention,” he huffs. “Customers won’t like repeating themselves.”

It cuts, the awareness that the other man is right. The memories it spurs of high school teachers calling him back after the bell to lecture him about how terrible he was at paying attention. And of the desperate ways he used to argue with them, fight for them to listen to him, only to walk away crying.

He knows better now, so he just nods and follows along.

With every step, he can feel the rattle of his bones, the ache in his joints turning acute as he walks. It’s only mid-afternoon and his head is spinning with desperate pleas to his body. His hands are shaking. The pin of his name tag is still cold against his chest, and the touch makes him want to press his palm to his ribs until the discomfort goes away.

This is why he couldn’t continue with uni.

Why Taylor stared at him with such concern when he told her he’d gotten a job. 

The thought comes and flits away with another blink and another painful step through the backrooms of Tesco. The man in front of him’s steps are sure, head steady as he walks. Dan can feel his neck giving out, the bob of his skull on aching bones, the spreading need to collapse and let something else hold his weight for a moment.

He keeps following, scowl drawing at his lips, the corners of his eyes creasing as he winces.

They stop walking by a closed office door. The man pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks it, steps inside and leaves Dan standing in the hallway. His weight falls against the nearest wall, a burst of  _ ow  _ erupting under in his shoulder at the pressure against it. He wants to stay there. Wants to press his spine to the wall and sink to the floor and forget that he’s at work.

Instead, he aims for awkwardly casual as the man walks back out of the office, a bundle of papers in his hand.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Dan swallows, pretends it doesn’t hurt, and nods.

“Okay then. Here’s a list of regulations and produce codes. I suggest you try to memorize them.”

He nods again, chokes out a quiet: “Okay.”

“And I’ll see you back here tomorrow for register training.”

Another nod. The man offers to show him the way out, but Dan needs to flee. Needs to be alone with his broken body and the tears that are starting to burn behind his eyes. So the man tells him how to get to the staff exit, offers a quiet goodbye, and walks away.

Dan lingers in the hall for a moment, listening to the distant rustle of footsteps as his head dips back against the wall and his ribs heave with every breath.

\---

The original plan was to take the bus back to uni and collapse onto his bed for a while before heading to Phil’s apartment to see it. But Dan gets three steps down the pavement before realizing that his body can’t handle a bus right now. His bones still protest every movement and his head is spinning and he can already feel the phantom bumps of Manchester roads as he walks.

Already hurts because of it.

So he slips into a Starbucks that only takes him a few steps to get to. Brushes past the few people inside to find the nearest seat and let his body fall. The rungs of metal at the back of his chair dig into his spine until he leans forward and lets his head rest on the tabletop.

His vision’s blurry. He wonders when that happened as he blinks the clouds away. One of the baristas is watching him, her eyes narrow.

He’s sure that they’ll complain about him later, and part of him wants to call out that he will buy something, will give them business, he just needs to sit and breathe.

Just for a moment.

The papers the man had given him have been crushed by his palm. The weight of his wallet feels heavy against his thigh. He wants to slip away and walk around like a normal nineteen year old. Wants to get a coffee and catch the bus and give his seat to someone who needs it without the disastrous consequences that always follow. 

He wipes at his eyes before the tears well, presses his face to his elbow and hopes they don’t come at all.

\---

By the time his legs are working again, and the blurred dizziness at the peripheral of his mind has faded, there’s only a little while until he has to be at Phil’s. Around him, the crowd has shifted, the world moved. The barista he’d noticed when he first arrived is at the register now. 

He wonders how long he’d been lying there. 

How long it took his body to function again.

He pushes himself up from the tabletop. His arm is damp, and he wipes it across his face, hopes its not obvious that he’s been crying. There’s a woman at the table behind him typing away on a laptop, and a couple in front of him both sipping at lattes, and Dan sucks in a breath and stands.

His knees wobble. It hurts, but he manages.

It’s not busy, and he breathes a quiet  _ thank you  _ under his breath as he slides into the queue. Two people are ahead of him. He can do this. He can. His phone is heavy in his hand and his shirt is still grating against his skin and he watches the minutes tick by too slowly. Feels the jerk of his knees under his weight as he shifts forward.

There’s a text taunting him with a notification.

_ Taylor: hope training went okay :) _

He can’t bring himself to respond.

The line moves forward and he shoves his phone into his pocket, stares at the menu until his vision goes blurry, blinks, and tries to commit the words to memory once again.

“Sir?”

A blink. A step forward. He forces a laugh, ignores the pain that comes with the rumble. 

“Sorry. I’ll have a caramel macchiato. Or, make that two. For Dan.”

The barista smiles, tells him his total so he can fish the money out of his wallet. 

“Have a good day, Dan,” she says.

He smiles, nods, too distracted to think of anything to say.

\---

Phil’s building has an elevator.

And Dan hates himself for the sigh of relief that passes through his lips at the sight. Hates that he needs to think about it. That he knows Phil lives so many floors up that Dan wouldn’t even make it to the flat if he needed to take stairs. That there’s tears welling in his eyes and all he can do is smear them across his face with the back of his hand.

Their coffees are warm against his palms. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his. He’s long since given up on drinking anything too hot without a burning in his throat for the rest of the day.

He leans against the wall in the elevator. The railing digs into his spine and his knees are grateful for the break, and he watches the number above the door too intently. 

It’s early. He knew it when he got into a cab and offered the address Phil had texted him last night. Knew it when he arrived at the building and stared at it for long minutes, scared to go inside. When he hit the elevator button. Phil probably isn’t home yet.

Still, he knocks. Waits.

There’s no answer.

He steps to the side, lets his head fall back against the hallway wall. The coffees are growing heavy, too. 

But he tells himself he’ll be fine waiting, and tries to make himself believe it.

\---

Dan ends up sitting in the hallway with his head between his knees. The coffees are on the floor beside him. He’d torn his phone and wallet out of his pockets and grappled with the collar of his polo shirt. His nametag is off and his back hurts and his cheeks are still damp with tears.

He sucks in a breath. One, two, three, four.

Exhales with a shaky five, six, seven, eight.

His head is spinning and his ribs burn with every breath and he’s vaguely aware of footsteps coming down the hall but they’re not the first since he’s gotten here. He’s given up on lifting his head every time. 

Except this time the footsteps come with a voice.

“Hi?”

The accent is Northern and Dan grips at his knees and forces his head up. The man staring back at him is wearing a blue button down with white spots on it and has a black fringe that mirrors Dan’s. He has one strap of a backpack thrown over his shoulder and a furrowed brow and blue eyes.

Dan suddenly wishes he’d rushed back to uni to change out of his Tesco uniform.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the man’s eyes go wide before he can say a word.

“Oh, bloody hell. It’s Dan, right? I knew I was forgetting something when my boss asked me to stay late.” It comes out in a rush. “I’m sorry. Not the best first impression, huh?”

Phil’s smile is crooked, and falls as fast as it flits across his lips.

“Are you okay?”

Dan swallows. He reaches over, grabs his phone, wallet, and nametag and shoves them into his pocket. The coffees are cold when he reaches for them. When he realizes just a moment too late that he needs a free hand to drag himself off the floor.

“Fine,” he chokes out.

He doesn’t sound fine. Phil notices.

“Here, I can take that,” he offers, reaching down to grab a cup.

“It’s for you,” says Dan.

The crooked smile returns. Dan finds himself smiling back. 

And then Phil’s holding out a hand, and Dan’s taking it, getting dragged to his feet. Phil’s hand is the kind of warm that doesn’t burn. 

Dan almost doesn’t want to let go.

But he does, closes both palms around his coffee cup. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “Sorry about that.”

Phil’s still smiling. “It’s my fault,” he says. “Wanna come inside?”

All he manages is a nod. Phil pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocks the door, and lets Dan step inside first.

\---

The apartment is mostly empty. The walls are white and the cabinets are a dark grey. There’s a couch and a coffee table and a TV. The bathroom is plain. Phil’s bedroom is already decorated. His bedspread is blue and green, and there’s a dying houseplant sitting on his chest of drawers. The other room is smaller, and empty. 

“Oh, there’s a balcony too,” says Phil. “I can show you that if you want?”

Dan feels the exhaustion creeping back along his spine. His head is growing heavy. Phil reaches out for him, and it takes Dan a moment to realize he must have been swaying on his feet.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

But Phil’s face is creased with worry again. He’s holding onto Dan’s arm like he’s scared Dan will topple over if he lets go. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He swallows, nods. “It’s just a thing that happens. Blood pressure or something.”

He means for it to sound casual, to assuage Phil’s worry. But the hand on Dan’s arm tightens, drags him forward with clumsy steps and pushes him down onto the sofa. Phil sits down next to him, pressed to the armrest. He’s staring, eyes wide, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Warmth settles in Dan’s chest.

It’s been a long time since anyone besides Taylor has bothered to worry about him.

“Is there anything that helps with it?” asks Phil. “Since it’s a thing that happens?”

Dan shrugs. “Just gotta wait it out.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t tell Phil that sitting helps. His head falls against the cushion behind him, and his feet fold under him. If Phil were Taylor, he would close his eyes and ignore the spinning in his head. But others, he’s learned, don’t appreciate conversations with closed eyes and half-responses, so he turns to face Phil, forces a smile.

There’s silence. Phil opens his mouth once, and a second time. He pulls out his phone, stares at it intently for a few moments, grins, and walks away.

When he returns, it’s with a bowl of crisps that he hands to Dan.

“Google tells me salt should help get your blood pressure up,” he says. 

The warmth comes back with a genuine smile that spreads across Dan’s face. “I-” He pauses, swallows. The words circling his mind seem insufficient. His gratitude feels like too much for a simple bowl of crisps. “Thank you.”

Phil smiles again. “You owe me some crisps now,” he says. “So what do you think of the place?”

“It’s really nice.”

He watches as Phil looks away, to stare at where he’s picking at the hem of his shirt. “Does that mean you’d like to get to know your potential future roommate?”

Part of Dan thinks that the kindness Phil’s already shown him is all he really needs to know. He swallows his bite of crisp. 

“Sure,” he says.

Phil looks up then, laughter gleaming in his eyes. He reaches over and snags a chip from the top of Dan’s bowl, pops it into his mouth his a grin. “For starters, prawn cocktail is one of my favourite crisp flavours.” He pauses, swallows his mouthful.

Dan thinks he should probably mind that Phil talks with his mouth full more than he does.

“You know, since you owe me and all.”

\---

Phil, it turns out, has a degree in English language and linguistics, and a master’s in post-production. He grew up just outside of Manchester, went to York for uni, and came back to be closer to family. He has a brother named Martyn who has a girlfriend named Cornelia. Phil isn’t seeing anyone, apparently, and has an addiction to coffee, pizza, and houseplants. He plays video games in his free time, and is rather partial to Mario.

His tongue sticks out from between his teeth when he laughs.

When Dan tells him he took a year off uni, he doesn’t ask why.

And now he’s standing on one side of his door, staring at Dan with that same crooked smile that’s ghosted across his lips since he first found Dan in the hallway.

“Are you taking the bus back to campus?”

Dan’s hand is shoved into his pocket, fiddling with the pin of his nametag. “I dunno.”

The flash of worry comes and goes. “I can call you a cab if you want,” he says. “You’re sure you’re feeling better?”

He nods. “Positive. Crisps are a miracle cure, apparently.”

For the dizziness, at least. He still hasn’t mentioned his weak knees or pained spine or the headaches that too often pound in his temples. Phil doesn’t need to know about that.

“Okay,” says Phil. “So, a cab?”

He’s picking at the hem of his shirt again, and watching Dan as though he’d rather offer to take the bus with him than let him go alone. And Dan finds himself nodding before he can stop himself.

“That would be nice,” he mumbles. His shoes suddenly seem far too interesting. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says Phil. “So, uh, will I see you in a few days, future … roommate?”

He sounds so cautious, so hopeful, that Dan forces himself to look back up. “Did my crying in your hallway and almost passing out not deter you?”

Phil’s smile falls in an instant. He swallows, shakes his head as though to rid it of unwanted thoughts. “Not at all.”

Dan nods. “Then sure,” he says, “I’ll see you in a few days.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

His bones still ache the next day.

Dan can feel the strain in the tendons at the back of his knees and ankles reminding him he stood for too long. His arms cramp with the consequences of exercise he never did. There’s a nerve that slices across his forehead, behind his eye, and dips along the bridge of his nose, that twinges with reminders of how much he overworked himself.

The law textbook from his last class is sitting on the nightstand. Relief shudders through his chest at the sight.

At least he doesn’t have to drag himself to a lecture today.

It’s too late in the morning and he can tell from the silence that most people have left to go about their day. In a few hours he’ll need to put on the scratchy Tesco uniform he hates and force himself to linger at a cash register and pretend he’s not in pain for hours. But for now he can curl up in a ball, press himself to the mattress, and appreciate the softness of the blanket that’s drawn over his body.

His ribs hurt when he breathes. Dan stares at the spine of his textbook until his eyes fall closed. 

When he opens them again, it’s to a knock on the door and the clock on his nightstand telling him that noon’s drawing near. The door creaks when it opens. 

He doesn’t bother to make sure it’s Taylor.

“You look like shit again.”

He huffs, throws himself onto his back. The blanket has tangled itself around his legs. His pillow is lumpy at the base of his skull.

“Do you still feel like shit?”

She hums, dropping down onto the foot of his bed. “No bio or chem classes today, so a little better.”

He nods. She looks better today. Her hair is damp and thrown into a messy bun, and she’s wearing leggings instead of jogging pants. He’s learned to recognize the small manifestations of her mood almost as well as she’s learned to spot any twinge of discomfort that flashes across his face.

She’s watching him now, reaches over to pat his knee. “Are you okay?”

Dan shrugs.

“Was work too much?”

He presses his cheek to his pillow, staring at where paint is chipping off the wall. “It was fine,” he lies. “Just a bit much with everything else I did yesterday.”

“Everything else?” She pauses. He can feel her plucking at the worn threads of his duvet. “Did the apartment have stairs?”

He shakes his head. “No. It was great. I just had to wait there for a while because Phil was running late and-”

“Shit.”

Taylor’s hand has curled into a fist around the fabric now. Dan fights the exhaustion heavy at the back of his neck to look up at her, catch the apology gleaming in her eyes without her saying a word.

“It’s fine. He was great,” he says. “I found a place.”

He feels the smile that flicks across his face, the flush of embarrassment that comes with it. Taylor releases the duvet, and pats him on the knee again because he didn’t flinch away the first time. 

“ _ Shit, _ ” she says again.

His responding chuckle rumbles low beneath his ribs. “Thanks, I guess.”

She pats his leg one more time. “I’m proud of you.”

And he pretends that he doesn’t know that, if his body didn’t hurt the way it does, she would have no need to say such a thing.

\---

Work is easier today.

Standing still is usually worse, but it allows him to control the movement of his legs, the weight resting on his ankles. He sways on his feet and presses his toes to his ankle to relieve the pressure and the man, whose name is apparently John, gives him a few odd stares.

But Dan leaves work without feeling like he’s on the verge of collapsing. So it’s better.

He catches the bus back to uni. Because he can do that when his body isn’t giving out on him with every step he dares to take. He sits on a normal seat between a couple and someone who looks like she might also be a student, presses his earbuds in and pretends he’s normal.

Split seconds in time let him do that.

Sometimes.

There’s a notification for a text message when he turns on his phone, a dot next to Phil’s name that has his brow furrowing. His breath catches when he reads what Phil has to say. 

_ Phil: you didn’t seem to be doing very well yesterday. I hope you’re feeling better today. _

_ Phil: oh and I’m off this weekend. if you want to move in then? _

_ Phil: I can help you as an apology for being late :) _

He can picture Phil’s smile, the kind and sympathetic one that had followed Dan around the flat when he was there yesterday. 

_ Dan: omg sorry for almost passing out on you yesterday _

_ Dan: but you don’t have to _

_ Dan: work comes first _

_ The bus bounces over bumps in the road. His neck already aches with it. His feet are going numb from the press of the seat to the back of his thighs. _

_ Phil: are you feeling better today? _

_ Dan: yeah _

And maybe it isn’t entirely true. But besides his smile, Dan can still picture the worry that had glossed over Phil’s eyes, and the rush to make Dan feel better that had driven his steps. Dan could feel the nauseating twist of guilt it elicited in his gut. 

_ Phil doesn’t need to know. _

_ Dan: and besides now i know crisps can help so thanks for that _

_ Dan: aren’t you at work _

_ Phil: Shhh I’m alone in the editing room. My boss doesn’t need to know. _

He laughs, muffling it behind his palm. The ache in his neck is growing worse.

_ Dan: i’m so jealous _

_ Dan: alone in an editing room sounds way better than tesco _

There’s a lull. Dan has time to press his head back against the window, and feel the dig of the seat back against the top of his shoulder blades. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, pressing against the ridges of bone there and swallows back a hiss when the pain gets worse.

A ding sounds in his earbuds, above the buzz of his music.

He glances back down at his phone.

_ Phil: I guess. _

_ Phil: I probably should focus though. _

_ Dan: Okay. _

\---

“You’re alive.”

Dan’s only halfway through the door, earbuds still in his ears. Taylor’s sitting on the couch, TV remote in hand. There’s not a textbook or laptop or notebook in sight.

“Debatable,” he says. “Am I not supposed to be?”

She shrugs. “I half expected you to pass out in the middle of Manchester and never come back.”

“Oh.” He swallows, pulls his earbuds out and shoves the tangle of wires into his pocket. “Well, I’m fine.”

She nods.

He lingers by the door for a moment. It falls closed behind him slowly, the thud echoing through the emptiness of their common room when it does. He shoves his phone into his pocket, too, and walks over to the sofa. He leaves an empty cushion between him and Taylor.

The dorm sofa isn’t comfortable. Not compared to how easily his weight had sunk into Phil’s sofa, how he’d been able to lean his head back and get some support for his weak muscles.

Taylor’s watching a cooking show Dan’s only ever seen in passing. Sort of. He knows her well enough to know she’s not paying attention.

“Don’t you have a lecture today?”

She turns to him, dropping the remote onto the cushion between them. “Skipped it,” she says. “Took a mental health day instead.”

He nods. 

“How was work?”

Dan shrugs. “Better than yesterday.”

He hasn’t clawed at the collar of his shirt or torn out his nametag yet. And he made it all the way back without his joints giving out under his weight. It’s an improvement.

“I’m moving this weekend.”

Taylor’s response is a hum, a smile. “You still haven’t told me like anything about yesterday,” she says. “Was I right about Phil being a good match for you?”

He plucks at his collar then, more-so because he can feel heat welling beneath it than because the fabric is making his skin sting. “I think so.”

She rolls her eyes, though her smile widens. He watches her reach for the remote, and turn off the television. “What happened?”

He swallows, remembering how quickly Phil had turned to Google to try to make Dan feel better, the way he’d handed over the bowl of crisps. “Nothing, really,” he says. “He apologized for being late, showed me around, and we got to know each other a bit.”

“Were you … okay?”

He swallows against that memory, too. It’s blurred at the edges and time feels fake and all he can picture is the moment Phil found him curled up on the floor with half his belongings in a pile next to him. The sway on his feet and dizziness at his temples that isn’t a specific memory, but a well maintained knowledge of the feeling that so often swirls in his head. 

“I was fine,” he mumbles. “A little sore but it was nothing.”

Taylor stares at him, silent until he’s squirming on the sofa and distracting himself by picking at his nametag. And then she reaches over, smooths a hand over his upper arm.

“Was he okay?”

Dan swallows again, stares down at where the bright blue of his polo meets the navy of his slacks. Still, he longs for the comfort of his joggers or the familiarity of his skinny jeans. 

“He was great,” he says, a breath so quiet he barely hears himself. 

There’s no reason for the way his cheeks burn, for the pressure in his chest as he speaks. One part of his brain insists that he should have long since gotten over the embarrassment, yet there’s still tears burning behind his eyes that he has to blink away.

Taylor squeezes his arm, gentle enough that there’s no need to rub away the pain afterwards.

“I’m glad,” she says. “I need to know that someone will take care of you when you leave.”

Dan closes his eyes and wishes he could take care of himself.

\---

He’s curled up in bed when he remembers his conversation with Phil.

His blanket is wrapped around his legs again, warm and soft and soothing his twitching nerves that grow restless by the end of the day. His pillow is soft under his head again. He’s developed at talent for fluffing out the lumps that press too harshly into the sensitive points on his body.

The screen of his phone is dimmed so it doesn’t hurt his eyes and telling him it might be too late at night to text, but still he finds himself re-reading their conversation. 

Sending a message he probably should have sent earlier.

_ Dan: oh I forgot to say so earlier but _

_ Dan: this weekend works for me _

_ Dan: saturday good? _

He wonders what Phil’s doing now. If he’s still dressed from the day or settled in bed. If he’s playing video games or caring for his houseplants, or maybe eating crisps because food somehow always seems more appealing after dark. If he smiles when he gets texts.

His phone screen brightens and a bubble pops onto the screen and Dan reminds himself not to bite his lip because it’ll hurt later.

_ Phil: Sounds good ^_^ _

_ Phil: Text me before you come over and I’ll meet you downstairs _

_ Dan: okay _

_ Dan: I’m looking forward to it _

_ Dan: dorm rooms have the shittiest mattresses _

_ Phil: Don’t remind me _

_ Dan: i’m jealous that you need reminding _

_ Phil: Soon you won’t have to be! _

He does bite back his smile then, and presses his face into his freshly fluffed pillow.

_ Dan: i look forward to it. _

Phil responds with another smiley that has Dan rolling his eyes against his grin. He closes their messages, deciding at the last minute that he should text his mum, too. 

_ Dan: I found a place to live. Will send you the address as soon as I move. Work is going well. I hope everything’s okay at home. _

He doesn’t wait for a response. She’s probably asleep by now, so he sets his phone aside and wills his usual insomnia away. 

\---

A few months ago, Dan had dug through the entirety of his childhood bedroom to find the things he would bring with him to uni. He’d chosen his favourite shirts and comfiest skinny jeans, and that one pair that dug painfully into his hips but hugged his legs just right. He’d rifled through his video games and left behind collections of action figures from his youth.

And Dan had moved across the country with his material  life narrowed to a suitcase, a duvet, and a couple of pillows.

That had been in August. It’s March now. And Dan’s belongings are again laid out in finite space for him to see, quantify, process. 

He didn’t bring much to uni, and gratitude for his past self flits through his mind now. There’s a suitcase laid out in the middle of the room, open. His clothing is lying in piles around it, unfolded and barely sorted. His laptop and DS and phone and the collection of wires that goes with them are spread across his bed. 

He’s sitting in the middle of his bed, feet tingling where they’re pressed to the ground and fingers clutching at the duvet he’s had for too many years. His arms already ache at the idea of folding all his clothes, neck already feels weak from sitting up. 

It’s Thursday. He’s moving in two days, and still doesn’t have a bed or a mattress or certainty that he’s doing the right thing. 

But he does have clothing in too many shades of black and the rest of his day free. And as much as his body longs to fall back onto his bed and ignore the explosion of things across his room, there’s a voice in his head reminding him that he should get this done on a day where he has nowhere else to be.

Work’s done. He’s back in the comfort of his pants and a t-shirt that’s grown soft with time. 

For a moment, he lets himself hate that needs to think about such things, that his days are scheduled in distant, limited activities that he can’t even promise to complete. He needs to pack on a day when he has time to recover, and the knowledge prickles along his spine enough to draw him from his bed.

He settles on the floor where he can let his head fall back against the mattress if need be, where he can reach for his stuff without needing to hear the pop of his joints.

If Taylor were here, she’d do it for him, tell him she likes folding things as means of explanation so Dan wouldn’t need to face the fact that she knows how difficult little things are for him. But he planned it so she’d be in class, laid everything out to be ready for her absence.

To let himself pretend he’s fine.

He gets halfway through the pile of shirts before his arms start to ache, the burn of exertion making itself known. His head falls back against the bed. He reaches blindly to grab his phone from where it sits on the duvet.

It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday. He knows there probably won’t be a response. And yet he finds himself opening his text messages, tapping Phil’s name.

_ Dan: i hate packing :( _

An answer does come after a few moments. Dan wonders if Phil’s alone in the editing room again.

_ Phil: Don’t we all? _

And though Dan knows that, later, he’ll crawl into bed, want to cry from the way his body has given up, stare at a screen because sometimes it’s all he can manage to do, a smile cracks across his face. 

If he’d texted Taylor, she would have asked if he was okay.

But Phil doesn’t know.

And Dan gets to keep pretending he’s fine.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes up to an empty dorm room.

His suitcase is pressed against the opposite wall. His phone is still sitting on his nightstand. There’s a change of clothes folded up and set aside for today, something Taylor deemed “cute.” He’s curled up in a blanket that’ll need to be packed away, clutching at a pillow he’ll carry separately.

It’s strange.

Dan didn’t think he’d be moving again in March. 

He’d thought he could do it.

He swallows, reaches for his phone because it’s easy and distracting and painless. It’s almost drifted into the afternoon and there’s a text from Phil on his homepage. A kind reminder to come over whenever he’s ready, to text Phil so he can help. As though Phil hasn’t already helped enough.

Dan had already ordered a bed and mattress that week, something cheap and simple and within his budget. Phil had been kind enough to deal with the delivery.

Yesterday, he’d texted Dan a picture of his assembled, unmade bed, and Dan had almost cried  in relief.

He untangles himself from his blanket, sits up with his knees hugged to his chest. His hips ache and his hands are ice cold. It suddenly seems terrifying to be leaving uni in the middle of the year with no success to his name and little ability to push forward. 

He presses his face to his knees until he can feel the twing of an angry nerve. And cries until his cheek is sticking to his leg and his eyes burn and he knows that, tonight, he’ll struggle to look at a screen without strain.

And then he reaches for his phone, opens up Phil’s messaged, still red-eyed and sniffling.

_ Dan: just woke up  _

_ Dan: be there in a bit _

\---

He doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. No one has noticed his presence enough for them to care about his absence. He shoves his pyjamas and blanket and phone charger into his suitcase and zips it up. And sits to pull his skinny jeans over his legs, ignoring the grate of denim against his skin. 

His shoulders crack as he pulls an undershirt on over his head. Fingers shake as he buttons up his shirt. Knees wobble under his weight when he pushes himself to stand. 

Taylor’s sitting in the living area when he walks out, wearing leggings and a smile that actually reaches her eyes.

“That happy to get rid of me?” he quips.

She doesn’t say a word, just shakes her head and motions to her car keys on the countertop. A silent reminder that she’s ready to leave whenever he is. 

So he drags his suitcase out of his room and sets it by the door. Grabs a handful of dried cereal and winces as he swallows it. Puts on his shoes and lingers until there’s no reason not to leave anymore.

Taylor’s staring at him, that knowing kind that has uncertainty prickling along his spine. It reminds him of when they first became friends, the quiet, unspoken understanding that neither one of them were entirely  _ okay  _ that had followed their early interactions.

“You okay?” she asks today.

He swallows, because his throat’s gone tight and he’s not sure if it’s from eating or the burning urge to cry again. “Fine,” he mumbles. “It’s just weird, you know?”

She nods, reaching out to pat his arm.

“Ready to go?”

Dan nods. There’s no reason not to go besides his minds reminders that actually leaving feels far more akin to dropping out that he had anticipated. Voices in his head echo fears that he’s a failure and his legs are starting to feel weak under his body as he follows Taylor to the door.

She’d offered to drive him. Because she can drive and Dan can’t and taking the bus with a suitcase and pillow and red-brimmed eyes is entirely unappealing. Her keys are in her pocket and she’s watching him as he grabs the handle of his bag, tucks his pillows under the other arm.

“Ready,” he mumbles. 

She opens the door without a word, leads him through the dormitory buildings in silence. When they reach her car, she opens the boot and shoves his bag inside for him. He hugs the pillow to his chest instead of letting her take it, presses his face to the fabric that smells disgustingly of him and uni and days spent without showering.

“Dan?”

Taylor’s leaning against her car now, her smile turned sad. He hopes the quirk of her lips is enough to ask her to continue because he doesn’t trust himself not to cry if he opens his mouth.

“I’m not happy to get rid of you,” she says. “I’m actually pretty sure this whole uni thing will be absolutely miserable without you.”

He nods, hugs his pillow tighter like a child who can’t handle goodbyes. 

The softness in her eyes reminds him of his mum when she’d left him in Manchester. Her smile is the same she gives him when she walks into his room and finds him wallowing on a bad day.

She reaches for him, rests a palm over his crossed wrists.

“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

\---

Phil’s standing outside when they get there, back pressed to the wall of his building, picking at the buttons of his shirt. He looks terribly awkward and if Dan wasn’t busy hoping there’s no lingering evidence of his tears, he’d be muffling a laugh behind his hand.

“Is that him?”

Dan swats at her arm. “Don’t stare,” he hisses. “But yes.”

“You guys have the same haircut.” She’s smiling. “I knew it would be a good match.”

He wants to quip about how haircuts aren’t actually the measure of social compatibility, but she’s rolling down his window and waving at Phil. Dan has the stupid urge to hide himself in his pillow and wait for the burning in his cheeks to subside, except Taylor’s grasping at his wrist and making him wave, too.

“Since when are you an extrovert?”

She shrugs. “I want you guys to be friends,” she whispers. “You need a friend.”

He rolls his eyes as Phil walks over. Taylor’s already opening the boot again, climbing out of the car as city traffic whirs past her. Dan wonders, for a moment, if she’s actually having a good day, or if the spur of adrenaline from helping him move is keeping her going.

He wishes adrenaline had that effect on his body, rather than draining him so much he feels pinned to his seat and ready to fall asleep the moment it starts to fade.

Phil’s standing just outside the car now, head dipped and hands in his pocket. Dan shoves his door open, finds himself standing next to his new roommate, still clutching his pillow a little too tight.

“That’s Taylor,” he whispers, just as she heaves the bag from her car. 

Phil nods. He still doesn’t speak. Taylor walks over. The wheels of his suitcase rattle over the pavement. Her smile is starting to falter.

“All ready?” she asks.

It’s half a breath and Dan wants to tell her he’s going to be okay. Wishes he could promise to make a friend and get help and not work himself to death but he can’t force words past the lump of uncertainty in his throat. So he nods, reaches out to tug the suitcase closer to his thigh, and then to give her a hug. 

The pillow’s wedged awkwardly between them, but her head finds his shoulder and her hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. She sniffles against his skin, huffs out the laugh that she does when tears are welling in her eyes and letting them fall feels weak. 

“Take care of yourself,” she whispers.

He nods, presses it to her hair and pretends its a promise. “Thanks for the ride.”

And then she’s pulling away, waving at Phil again. “Take care of him,” she says. 

Dan feels his face flush, forces away the urge to get upset at her for saying such a thing. Phil probably thinks it’s casual, a joking request from a friend. Probably isn’t imaging weeks without showering and days where Dan’s barely able to get out of bed and bringing him crisps again because his stupid blood pressure thing is far from uncommon.

And he really, really doesn’t want to give Phil the ability to imagine it the way he knows Taylor can.

Phil nods, says: “I will,” but it’s a whisper he’s not sure Taylor catches. 

And then she slips back into her car, waves one last time, and drives away. He wonders how far she’ll get before the tears start to fall, and she starts wiping them away with murmurs of how pitiful it is that she’s crying.

If she knows exactly how he’ll feel by the time afternoon fades into evening and the weight of the day collapses onto his bones in an aching mess of exhaustion and agony.

“I’ll take that for you.”

Dan blinks. Phil’s reaching for the handle of his suitcase, a smile on his face. 

“Thank you,” he hears himself say. And he follows Phil into the building with the same startling sense of  _ I’m actually moving  _ that had followed him out of bed that morning.

\---

Dan’s bed looks just like it did in the picture.

There’s the cheap black headboard that’s covered in fake leather and a box holding the mattress. The walls are empty and the room is blank and he should probably invest in a nightstand and dresser at some point, but the room already feels more comfortable that the painted brick back at uni. 

Phil’s standing in the doorway, hands wedged into his pockets, as Dan shoves his suitcase against a wall where a dresser could go and unzips it. He packed so the sheets and duvet are carefully folded and shoved on top of his clothes, wrinkled from being squished into place.

“Want help with that?”

Dan looks up. The duvet is curled up in a ball between his arms and he feels like a child, suddenly. Squatting on the floor with arms full while Phil’s looking down at him with a crooked smile and sincerity gleaming in his eyes. 

He swallows. “Sure.”

Phil plucks the sheets off the top of the suitcase and lets the fitted one unfurl between his fingers. Dan drops the duvet onto the floor, stares dumbly because he didn’t have to do this at uni. Not properly, at least. The sheets he’d brought from home had been for a double and folded over the small mattress of his dorm room too easily.

He’s almost glad his mum told him not to buy new ones, had insisted he keep his savings in case he wouldn’t be able to work. As though him working and doing uni at the same time had ever really been a possibility. 

“Grab the other half?”

Dan blinks. Phil looks like he wants to laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his grin. He reaches down, ignores the spinning in his head when he stands straight again.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Phil. “I was kind of a mess when I first moved into my own apartment.”

Dan wishes he could picture it, a younger version of Phil as clumsy and uncertain as he is. But he can’t manage more than a laugh and a nod as he walks over to the bed and starts drawing the fitted sheet over the far corner wedged between two walls. 

It takes them three attempts to get it on properly and by then Dan is lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling and letting Phil tug it into place. His chest is heaving and he can feel his face burning. The rush of moving is caving into his chest and he wonders is Phil notices. 

He hopes he doesn’t.

“There we go!” says Phil, and he’s standing up straight, staring down at Dan, still smiling. He’s notably not out of breath despite having done more of the work. “Wanna do the rest or?”

Dan shakes his head, taps the mattress beside him with a clumsy hand. “Break time.”

There’s a second’s hesitation before Phil crawls onto the mattress, plops himself down on his stomach at the foot of the bed. His hands are clasped together and his feet are kicking in the air and Dan finds himself smiling before he can process any logical reason why. 

“Thanks for the help,” he says. Phil might not know why it matters, but that doesn’t stop the flood of gratitude lacing itself between Dan’s ribs. “And for assembling the bed for me.”

Phil laughs, presses the sound against the jut of his thumbs. “It was no problem, Dan. I needed something to occupy my time anyway.”

Dan nods, lets the silence come and tries not to fret over whether or not its awkward. He can still hear his own breathing, feel the tingling beginnings of muscle pain in his arms and legs. His ribs are starting to ache from lying on his back, but he doesn’t care to risk the more obvious pain of moving.

He pulls his knees up, hugs them to his chest, and hopes he doesn’t look too odd.

Phil only smiles, resting his head on his hands. “So, Taylor,” he says, “is she your girlfriend?”

Dan almost chokes on his laugh, muffles it against the fabric of his jeans. “No. Not even close,” he says. “She’s the only person at uni who thought I was worth talking to.”

He’s tempted to explain. To tell Phil about how most freshmen students don’t care to socialize with the boy who hides away in his room after stumbling home from class. Who limps sometimes and sleeps too much and sprays abhorrent amounts of dry shampoo into his hair to hide the fact that he didn’t shower. 

But there’s a sad edge to the story that most people aren’t used to, a specific breed of sympathy Dan’s stopped being able to accept after so many years. And Phil’s smile is still crooked, his eyes still happy.

The cloud of worry Taylor so often regards him with is gone, and there’s something so brilliant about it that Dan can’t muster a word that would change anything.

“I’m not exactly a social butterfly,” he says instead. “But she’s a good friend.” 

He pauses. Phil nods.  “And nothing more?”

Dan hears himself laugh away the sudden need to make sure Phil knows the truth, looking away from how Phil’s fringe parts over his forehead, because that makes speaking easier. “Nothing more.”

There’s another nod. Another beat of silence. Dan’s breathing has quieted but now his heartbeat is audible. He can feel the draw of fatigue at the back of his mind, the way his body sinks into the mattress. It’s far more comfortable than his bed at uni had been, no matter how little he’d paid for it.

Phil combs a few strands of stray hair into his fringe. “She can stop by whenever she wants,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel like your friends can’t come over.”

“Friend,” says Dan. “Singular friend.”

Phil chuckles. “Too real.”

“Any friends of yours I should expect to stop in?”

Phil shrugs. “My friend Ian might? He doesn’t usually come by unannounced, though,” he says. “We do movie nights sometimes.”

“Should I be out of the house for those movie nights?”

He laughs then, dips his head again and lifts a palm to his mouth. Dan finds himself smiling, too, past the fatigue and the pain. 

“No,” Phil responds. “You could join if you want.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t want to intrude.”

Phil looks back up at him. He’s still smiling. Dan wonders if that’s what it’s like to enjoy happy moments without the endless demands of a body that doesn’t work quite right. If Phil notices how easily his smile falls, even when there’s genuine joy swirling in his mind.

Moments like those when he closes his eyes mid-conversation and doesn’t smile because light burns and his cheeks hurt and it’s easier to enjoy the moment without the bother of his body. 

Moment like right now. 

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” says Phil. “I invited you, and he’s been adamant about meeting my roommate, anyway.” 

Dan nods. Phil pauses, glances down at his hands again.

“Besides, maybe we could do something about that whole singular friend thing.”


	5. Chapter 5

The flat is too quiet when Dan wakes up.

He’s used to the ambient buzz of college students co-existing in too little space. To mornings when Taylor sits at his desk to write papers in an attempt to avoid other people. To the boys fighting in the living area or footsteps booming from above his head or traffic on the street below.

The new flat is high up enough that cars are barely heard inside. There’s no noise from the flats around them. Dan’s walls are white and bare and all of it feels too empty. 

But he doesn’t wake up with a headache.

He pushes himself from his bed and pulls on jogging pants, untwists the t-shirt he fell asleep in. Phil’s door is closed and the lounge is empty. There’s a note on the fridge written in messy handwriting telling Dan he have whatever he wants for breakfast with a smiley face in the corner that has Dan grinning at a post-it note. 

The rest of his body hurts and he has work in a few hours, but he manages to find a bowl and a spoon and cereal, and eats breakfast staring out the window at a notably prettier view of Manchester than he dorm ever offered. 

He sits on the couch and stares at a blank television screen for far too long.

It’s overbearing now, the lack of anything in his life. No classes he needs to drag himself to or papers to write, no friend who rambles for him to listen to, nothing to effectively fill the void besides his hyperawareness of his own nervous system.

He gives himself a moment to wonder if anyone else feels this way. If they’re aware of discomfort creeping along the soles of their feet when there’s nothing else to think about.

And then goes back to his bedroom to dig his laptop out of his suitcase. 

He passes Phil’s closed door on the way, and ignores the voice in his head questioning if Phil noticed that they went to bed at the same time, but Dan woke up way later.

\---

His shift is too many hours long.

He realizes it when the back of his neck starts to ache in that incessant, tingling way that makes his head go heavy. When his wrists start to hurt from handing over bags of groceries. When someone reminds him that his shift is over and he escapes to the bathroom with clumsy steps and tears starting to well in his eyes. 

His ankles are weak and his head is spinning and he collapses onto the toilet with eyes squeezed shut against the burning brightness of fluorescent lights. 

The fabric of his shirt is too scratchy again, the kind that has him smoothing his palms over his arms and hissing at the burning spasms of nerves under his touch.

Someone walks in and Dan slips out, rinses his hands even though the water hurts as it runs over his palms, and leaves. He doesn’t mutter a goodbye to anyone, doesn’t see any of his coworkers as he leaves the building. Doesn’t want to when he can feel his joints giving out.

He gets a cab instead of taking a bus, tells himself it’ll only be for the first little while as his body adjusts. The cab driver doesn’t point out the tears that have rolled down his cheeks. 

There’s texts on his phone again, a bunch of them from Phil, and Dan reads them one by one.

_ Phil: When does your shift end? _

_ Phil: And what do you like on your pizza? _

_ Phil: wait never mind _

_ Phil: I just realized you can’t answer. _

_ Phil: ignore me _

_ Phil: but there’s leftover pizza for you _

Dan’s laugh is wet and kind of snotty and he’s glad no one’s there to see it. He wipes at his eyes and sniffles and types out a response with shaking fingers. 

_ Dan: on my way there now _

_ Dan: thx for the pizza my stomach is already rumbling _

_ Phil: ^_^ _

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, unclips his name tag because the scrape of metal over his ribcage with every bump in the road is growing irritating. The cab is already turning onto Phil’s street and Dan can still feel the swollen redness of his eyes, the dampness left on his cheeks.

Phil is already home and panic clutches at his chest when Dan sees their building just ahead. He wipes at his cheeks until it hurts and sniffles and hopes Phil doesn’t notice whatever evidence of his tears remains.

He almost asks the cab driver if he can tell Dan was crying, but swallows the question back and hands over the money for the ride without a word. 

\---

Phil’s sitting at the breakfast bar when Dan opens the door. The television is playing an episode of adventure time and his phone is sitting on the counter and there’s two pieces of pizza on a plate next to him. His head is dipped so his fringe covers one of his eyes but not the hint of a smile that plays at his lips.

Dan forces himself to ignore the painful burn that tears have left in his eyes.

He doesn’t say a word. His collar’s crooked and his name tag is gone and Phil isn’t looking at him anymore, but staring at the sleek white of the countertop. His hands are smoothing anxiously over the fabric of his jeans, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Dan’s fingers feel clumsy at his sides.

“The pizza for me?” he asks. 

His knees are weak and he wants to collapse onto a barstool, let his weight fall forward so the breakfast bar can do the work for him. But he stands awkwardly in the space between the front door and Phil, staring because he’s not sure what else to do.

Phil nods. “I already ate. There’s more if you want it.”

Dan nods back, because his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and words swell too painfully against his ribs. He wonders if Phil noticed the swelling of his eyes, the unsteadiness of his walk. He slides onto the barstool next to Phi;. Their knees, are pressed so close together.

Phil’s hands are curled around his knees now. He’s still not looking at Dan.

He takes a bite of his pizza slowly. The room is too quiet even with the TV playing in the background. Without the task of making his bed or the distraction of dizzy spells, he can’t ignore the fact that Phil is a stranger. That he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know much at all.

He stares at the kitchen. His swallow is audible and when he glances at Phil, he’s still staring at his knees.

“How was work?”

Phil chuckles, reaches up to swipe his fringe to the side. “Okay, I guess,” he says. “Kind of boring.”

Dan swallows, even though he still hasn’t taken a second bite. “Isn’t all work?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

And there’s silence again. Dan can hear the grate of Phil’s fingers over the fabric of his jeans. Can hear himself chewing. He wonders if there’s as many clumsy words resting on Phil’s mind as there is weighing heavily on his own.

He finishes the first slice of pizza. Phil’s adjusted his fringe again and squirmed in his chair and watched Dan take the two last bites and Dan’s spine is prickling. His bones still feel weak but his desire to slip away suddenly has far less to do with pained muscles.

Phil shifts again. He brings he hands back to the counter for the first time since Dan sat down.

“What’s something you’re really terrible at?”

Dan almost chokes on his laugh, the too loud kind he usually tries to swallow back. “What?”

Phil’s cheeks go a little pink, but he doesn’t look away. “It’s an icebreaker,” he says. “It’s fun to get to know the most random things about someone.”

“Like what they’re bad at?”

Phil just hums, offers a crooked smile that feels like a prompt. Dan realizes suddenly that his hands are sitting awkwardly on either side of his plate.

“Um,” he says. “I think this whole conversation has proven I’m pretty bad at human interaction.”

He chuckles, the warm kind that has Dan smiling too. “Me too.” He pauses, reaches up to swipe at his fringe again. “But also all sports.”

“I mean, same.”

There’s a lull. Dan takes another bite of his pizza. Even without them speaking, his chewing sounds less noisy in his ears. Phil’s still smiling. His cheeks are still a little pink.

“You should come up with one,” he says. “A really random question.”

“Oh.” Dan pauses, shrugs. He can feel the flush of warmth in his cheeks. “What would you save from a fire?”

Phil doesn’t need to think. “Probably my laptop,” he says. His smile is even wider now. 

Dan reaches for his food again because his hands suddenly feel too empty. “Yeah, me too.”

Phil gives him a moment after that, lets Dan finish his dinner. His fingers are greasy and back is starting to hurt and the barstool is too hard against his ass. He swallows again, wipes his hands on the fabric of his work pants. Phil looks a lot less nervous now, and Dan feels his words come easier.

“Any other weird icebreakers?”

“Weird? It wasn’t that weird.”

“Then what’s a weird one?”

Phil grins then. “What’s one question you absolutely wouldn’t want to answer?”

“Um.” Dan pauses. There’s a lot of them. A lot of things he doesn’t want to admit to Phil that flit uselessly through his mind. The man from work asking him if he was okay is one, a voice booming in his head like a threat. It twists in his mouth. “I don’t know,” he says. “What’s yours?”

Phil’s grin only widens. His tongue sticks out from between his teeth when he chuckles and Dan catches himself wondering if he always does that. 

“What cheese do I want rubbed on my body.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Dan hears the squeakiness in his own voice, feels the painful crack of it in his throat. Phil’s laughing so much he’s brought his hands up to cover his mouth and Dan realizes he is too when the ache of it bursts in between his ribs. 

He presses a hand to the pain, hopes it looks like he’s trying to quell his laughter. “What?” he says again.

Phil shrugs then. Laughter still shakes at his shoulders, rings in his voice. “I really don’t like cheese,” he says, as though that settles everything. “So if we’re sharing groceries, no cheese for you either.”

His ribs hurt, but Dan forces a sigh. “Phil, I’m not sure this roommate thing is gonna work out.”

\---

They end up in the lounge, sometime after Dan dumping his plate into the sink and Phil asking if he liked playing Mario games. The couch cushions are softer against his spine and the bones of his bum don’t hurt as much, even though his ribs still ache when he laughs. 

Phil’s turning on the Wii and putting in the disk for Mario Bros. with clumsy fingers and quiet giggles. He throws the second Wii remote onto the couch next to Dan.

“Know what you should do first?”

He looks so happy with the idea that Dan can’t help but say: “What?”

“Make a Mii!”

He comes back over to the couch, wedges himself against the other armrest. The preview for Mario Bros is already lighting up the top corner of the screen and Dan kind of wants to hit that instead. But Phil’s already opening the Mii channel.

“It’s your Wii,” says Dan.

Phil shrugs. “You live here now, too. And you can use it whenever,” he says. “You should have a Mii, too.” 

There’s only a few Mii’s already on the screen. Dan wonders who each of them is, figures that Phil’s is the one with black hair and  blue eyes. Phil tosses the player one remote at him. It hits Dan in the thigh, and he reaches down for it to ignore the bloom of pain where it touched.

“Fine.”

He makes his Mii with Phil sitting beside him, providing input where none is necessary. He alternates between hairstyles and frets over eye shapes and more than once finds himself looking awkwardly at Phil as he assesses the likeness between Dan and his Mii. 

He’s doing that now, humming as though any of this has any importance. Dan has his face pressed to the cushions, feels himself grin. 

“What’s your assessment?”

Phil smiles back at him. “The face shape is right,” he says. “But you forgot to add dimples. You have cute dimples.”

Dan blushes, looks away to hide it. Phil giggles. Dan doesn’t have to look over to see his smile. He just stares at the television, adds dimples, and rushes to type in his name. His cheeks are still burning and the pointer is shaky on screen and Phil’s still laughing.

The Mii drops into place between Phil and a short girl with red hair. 

“There you go,” says Phil. “It looks just like you. You’re part of the crew now.”

“The crew?”

Phil laughs. “Yeah, my crew,” he says. “We’re super cool. The cool cats, if you will?”

“Cool cats?”

There’s a hum. Dan leaves the Mii channel, opens Mario instead. Phil reaches for the player two remote between them. He’s still laughing.

“With two K's and a zed,” he says. “That’s how the cool people spell it.”

Dan laughs, too. He starts a new game in the last empty slot, watches as Phil picks Luigi as his character. “I’m sure it is, Phil,” he says. “I’m sure it is.”

\---

They play Mario until the sun has set outside and Dan’s sinking into the cushions a little too much. His eyelids are drooping and Phil’s watching him with a content kind of smile. The Wii menu music is still playing in the background, and if his throat wasn’t starting to hurt from talking all day, Dan might jokingly hum along.

Instead, he lets his head fall back against the cushion and his eyes fall closed. His exhale heaves at his chest, sounds painful even to his own ears.

“You okay?” asks Phil.

He’s sitting half-sideways with one leg propped up on the sofa, the other bouncing against the floor. Dan offers a smile, the sleepy kind he’d use as a goodbye when Taylor left his room at night, squirms to get more comfortable. He nods, feels his hum grate at his throat.

“Just tired,” he says. “Work’s tiring.”

Phil doesn’t need to know about the exhaustion, the tears, the almost collapsing in the back halls of Tesco. But he knows enough to nudge Dan’s knee with his toes.

“How’s your blood pressure thing? I bought more crisps on my way home.”

Dan opens his eyes then, his smile growing wider. “For me?”

Phil shrugs. “I figure it’s better for you if you don’t feel like you’re about to faint.”

“Yeah,” says Dan. “Thanks for that.”

They sit there for a moment longer, quiet. It feels less intrusive than it did earlier, the silence. Maybe because his brain’s gone hazy, given up for the day. Maybe because Phil seems comfortable in his own flat again. Maybe because he feels less like a stranger in Dan’s.

He breathes along to the Wii music, follows counts of four because it hurts less that way.

“You should get some sleep. You work again tomorrow, don’t you?”

Dan hums. “I have Saturday off, though.”

“I do too,” says Phil. Dan can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow when you get home?”

Even through the fog, Dan notices he doesn’t mention the morning. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

“Well, it is your flat after all.” 

There’s a pause. The cushion lifts as Phil stands, and Dan forces his eyes back open so he can go to his bedroom, too. His head feels heavy, like he could fall asleep sitting on the sofa. Phil must notice, because he chuckles, reaches a hand out to Dan.

“You really need sleep,” he says. Dan wants to laugh at how little Phil knows how right he is.

“I do.”

Phil helps him to his feet, clumsy and awkward and everything made hazy with fatigue. He steadies Dan’s shoulders and giggles into the silence. 

“I’ll turn off the TV,” he says. “You go get some sleep.”

Dan nods. “Okay. Goodnight.”

Phil’s voice is still ringing with joy when he says: “Goodnight.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dan spends Saturday morning huddled in bed. 

His pillow is fluffed under his head and his softest blanket is wrapped around his body and the week still presses him down into the mattress with a heavy sort of pain he’s grown used to. His laptop is sitting beside him and his headphones are off because they hurt his ears and he can hear Phil in the next room living a normal life. 

He wonders how Phil spends his weekends, even though he could just peak around the corner and check. If he waters the yellowing houseplants that litter the flat or goes out on the balcony. If he makes plans with friends to go out for drinks or to have them over. If Ian would usually be here.

He rolls over and presses his face to his pillow. He could go out, sit on the sofa and pretend to be healthy. Play video games until his eyes burns and eat crisps when his head spins. His arms and legs are sore and his neck doesn’t really want to hold his head up but part of him wants to do more than lie in bed all day.

Another part of him thinks about how Phil smiled at the idea of them both having the weekend off.

He sighs, winces when it hurts, and reaches for his phone.

The apps are boring and the internet is mundane when Dan would rather be doing something else. There’s a glaring red bubble at the bottom of his screen, a text notification from yesterday that he’s ignored for too long.

_ Taylor: how are you holding up? _

_ Taylor: are you dead? _

_ Taylor: stop ignoring me daniel _

He rolls his eyes, types out his response with clumsy fingers.

_ Dan: not dead _

_ Taylor: thank god _

_ Taylor: how’s work _

_ Dan: shit _

_ Taylor: how’s phil _

_ Dan: less shit _

There’s a pause. He watches the bubble of her typing appear and disappear until he’s rolling onto his back and staring at the plain white of the ceiling. The walls are still blank and his belongings are still all tucked inside his suitcase. He wonders, fleetingly, if Phil would be willing to assemble a chest of drawers for him, too.

His phone vibrates in his hand and he glances at the message, swallows when he reads it. 

_ Taylor: have you told him about...it? _

There’s a clatter from the other room and a shout of  _ I’m okay!  _ that has a smile spreading across his face. That reminds him Phil’s actually doing things while Dan stays in bed with a blanket and his phone and a countdown to when he can take more pain medication ticking loud in his mind.

He doesn’t want Phil to know. Doesn’t want to replace this easy companionship with furrowed brows and whispers of  _ are you okay?  _ into rooms left dark for the sake of Dan’s sensitive system. 

He tosses his phone aside so it lands on the empty expanse of mattress next to him and pushes himself out of bed. His knees wobble and ankles crack, arms ache from the effort. His joggers and hoodie are laid out over his suitcase and no part of him wants to bend down to get the outfit. 

But he does, pulls it over prickling skin, and leave the room.

He loves Taylor. He does.

He just doesn’t need another Taylor.

\---

Phil’s sitting in the lounge when Dan emerges from his bedroom. His fringe is a little out of place, his t-shirt twisted around his torso. His pyjama bottoms are an abhorrently bright shade of green. Dan feels too aware of the fact that his outfit is just two different shades of black.

Outside, the sun has risen so much it gleams too-bright off the metal railings of the balcony. He wishes he’d made note of the time becoming coming out.

“He finally emerges,” says Phil. He’s grinning. Dan notices the Wii remote that’s sitting on his lap, the paused game lighting up the TV. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he says. “Can I steal some cereal?”

“Of course.”

He hears the game unpause as he makes his way to the kitchen. The cupboard door for the bowls and mugs are open, and Dan presses them both closed as he pours himself a bowl. It’s quiet in an easy way today. Phil hasn’t asked if he feels okay and Dan can eat pretending it doesn’t hurt and it’s simple.

He sits on the sofa to eat, watches Phil finish his round of Mario Kart.

“You’re not very good at this.”

Phil squeaks at that, crashes his car into a wall as he turns to Dan. He fumbles for the home button to pause the game, still staring with wide eyes and a twisted frown. “I’ll have you know I’m the best out of my friends.”

“How bad are your friends?”

Dan sees it about to happen, feels his shoulders go tense. Phil reaches from the sofa and knocks the remote against his shoulder. Hard. Hard enough to have Dan biting his tongue to hold back a hiss, smiling so that tears don’t well in his eyes. Phil draws away too quickly, stares with wide eyes.

“Did I hurt you?”

Dan shakes his head, even as the ache of a phantom bruise erupts in his arm. “Just caught me off guard,” he says, jaw clenched and words quiet. He takes another mouthful of cereal so he can’t say anything stupid, with Phil still staring at him with such sympathy gleaming in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have been more careful of your bound-”

“It’s fine, Phil,” Dan hears himself say. There’s still cereal wedged in his cheek and still a sting behind his eyes. “I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

Phil’s response is a wordless nod, all wide eyes and worried brows. It reminds Dan of Taylor, how she’d stare at him if he insisted he was fine. It twists in his stomach so much he sets his cereal bowl on the coffee table, turns back to Phil.

“Finish this round, and pass me the player two remote,” he says. “I’ll show you what good Mario Kart looks like.”

Phil does finish the round and comes in first. Dan forces himself to finish his cereal before it gets too soggy, swallowing past the lump in his throat even though every bite seems nauseating. 

And then he’s handed the remote, so gently he almost wants to roll his eyes. But Phil’s offering a smile that looks like an apology and he can’t be upset. Not at Phil.

Just at himself and the awful sensitivity that leeches across his body.

“You can choose the races,” says Dan. 

Phil does. He chooses his favourites with a proud smile and straightened spine and Dan watches him come in second once, twice, a third time with laughter rumbling in his chest. Phil squeaks and grumbles and accuses him of cheating and lifts his arm as though to hit him with he remote again.

He doesn’t do that, though. He presses the remote to his own thigh and Dan ignores the pain that’s lingered for too long in his arm. 

Dan wins. Phil gets second in every race. He tosses the remote onto the cushions in defeat.

“How do you do that?” he says, half groaning against the leather of the sofa.

“I have my secrets.”

Phil tries to frown, but one corner of his mouth quirks upwards instead. “It’s officially part of your rent to teach me these secrets,” he says. “Okay?”

Dan smiles back at him, presses A to skip the cutscene. “Okay.”

\---

They stay in the lounge for a long while. 

Phil takes Dan’s bowl to the kitchen for him, returns with two cups of coffee. Dan tries to teach him how to drift properly in the game. They trade out Mario Kart for more Mario Bros. sometime when the sun is high in the sky and play their way through world two. Phil grumbles about Dan’s incessant need to get the star coins and Dan picks Phil’s character up whenever he tries to rush through a level. 

It’s fun. An easy kind of fun that makes Dan glad that, if his body insists on being so annoying, he at least lives at a time where video games exist to entertain him. 

His arm still aches hours later, but he quells his instinct to smooth his hand over the bruise that won’t actually be there. Phil’s still watching him too intently and there’s guilt that lingers in his eyes late into the day. 

Dan feels the same thing settle in his stomach, bitter and heavy.

They have leftover pizza for dinner, stay in the lounge to eat, games paused and smiles still on their faces. The sun has started to fall below the skyline and the Wii whirs incessantly and Dan sinks into the cushions of the sofa. 

His back still hurts, but just a bit. Just enough for it to flit across the peripheral of his consciousness when he moves. 

Phil’s finally stopped staring at him like he may break at the simplest of touches. He smiles and laughs and reaches over to pat Dan’s leg at one point with only a second’s hesitation. His fringe is full of gaps and he’s still wearing his too-bright pyjamas and Dan feels comfortable sitting around in his joggers with his hair curling at the tips.

It’s the evening and they’re still joking around about video games.

Phil’s tongue sticks out when he laughs. 

Today, Dan thinks, is a good day.

\---

“I was thinking, we should probably actually talk about how this is going to work.”

Phil says it after the sky’s gone dark only to be lit up by Manchester’s littering of lights. When they’re turned off the video games and put on a random movie Dan isn’t actually watching. They have a bag of crisps sitting on the couch between them. 

Dan’s hips are starting to ache from being bent all day, and he’s been contemplating going to bed since Phil turned off the Wii. But he tilts his head back against the cushions, hums.

“How so?”

Phil shrugs. “Like practical stuff, I guess? Like how are we gonna handle groceries.”

He opens his mouth, almost offers to get them after work. But something painful jabs between his ribs at the thought, at memories of shaky knees and broken breaths and tears streaking down his face as soon as his shift ends. He imagines waiting moments longer, shopping for two and carrying it home. A wisp of pain in his wrist comes a second later. 

“We could share them?” he says. “Split the bills?”

Phil nods. “Okay.” He pauses, picks at his pyjamas. “What about chores?”

Dan swallows at that one, too. Too many memories about his time at home, before uni, swirl uselessly in his mind. “I can sweep,” he offers. “And do dishes.” 

“I can hoover,” says Phil. He cocks his head to the side, presses himself deeper into the cushion beside him. “And take care of the bathroom.”

Dan nods then. The pressure in his hips is growing painful, his mind going in hazy. He lets his legs stretch out a bit, so his toes sit by Phil’s leg and his joints pop with the release. “Anything else?”

“Friends?”

“Easy,” says Dan. “I don’t have any.”

Phil reaches over, gently slaps at Dan’s shin. “You have Taylor.” His brows are raised and eyes gleaming and Dan squirms under his stare.

“Fine, one friend,” he says, a whisper now. “And there’s nothing going on between me and Taylor.”

A smile cracks across Phil’s face. “I know,” he says.

He doesn’t sound like he knows. Not with the edge to his voice and the grin that lingers on his lips and the way he’s staring at Dan like he expects some confession of non-existent feelings to follow. Not when he says her name like he does.

“Nothing,” Dan hears himself repeat. “And, uh, your friends can come over whenever.”

Phil nods. He blinks, and the gleam in his eyes fades to something softer. “I’ll warn you first,” he says. “I know social interactions with strangers can be exhausting.”

“I’ll warn you, too.”

They fall silent then. Dan’s sure that any adult would tell him there’s more to discuss, but his day off is drawing to a close with the threat of tomorrow’s shift and he wants nothing more than to lay down and not think. There’s a sweep of fatigue in his mind and a burn of nausea in his stomach and his bed sounds far more appealing than any important conversation.

His eyes fall closed, head lolls against the sofa. He feels Phil reach out, rest a hand on Dan’s knee.

“You okay?”

It’s not the worried kind he’s familiar with, not lilted with concern. Nighttime has fallen outside and Phil is pressed just as heavily into the cushions as Dan is and it’s easy to not open his eyes. Easy to hum and nod his head and let Phil’s hand keep resting on his leg.

“Still tired,” he says. “Work makes my legs sore.”

It’s the truth. Incomplete at best, but the words fall from his tongue without the fear that Phil will overanalyze it into figuring out that which Dan’s omitted.

“Do you wanna stretch them out?”

His eyes do snap open then. “I’m fine,” he says. “You’re sitting there.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Phil’s staring down at where his hand rests on Dan’s knee, his fringe falling to cover one of his eyes. His thumb smooths over the jut of Dan’s kneecap. Dan watches it, swallows against a hum of approval. His knees, he realizes, don’t hurt when they’re touched. 

It feels good, the sweep of soft fabric over his skin. 

“What are your boundaries?” says Phil.

Dan stares at his legs. Contemplates saying that his thigh get so sensitive that the touch of his trousers burns. That squeezing any part of his body can be enough to bring tears to his eyes. That the soles of his feet are ticklish and it hurts a lot when people touch them. But he can picture the way Phil’s brows would furrow, the worry that would come and would never quite go away. 

“Just don’t hit me with any Wii remotes.”

Phil’s responding laugh is dry and pained and guilt sweeps through Dan’s mind as quickly as the sound dies in the air. He keeps staring at his leg as Phil’s fingers drift down his shin, curl around to hold his calf. As Phil lifts his foot from the sofa cushion and drapes Dan’s leg over his lap. 

“Is this okay?”

Dan’s chest is so tight he can feel the jab of pain between every one of his ribs. He nods.

So Phil does the same with his other leg, too gentle for a normal person but just gentle enough for Dan to not wince. His knees crack and hips pop and he presses his face into the couch to his the flush of red rising on his cheeks.

“Comfier?”

He nods again, musters a quiet: “Yeah.”

Phil doesn’t say another word after that. Just sits there staring at the television, where the movie continues in a boring drawl of too much exposition. Dan keeps staring at the couch until his eyes fall closed again, until his mind goes hazy.

Until he falls asleep with his legs on Phil’s lap. 

\---

It’s a hand on his shoulder that shakes him awake, a voice whispering too close, too warm next to his ear.

“Dan, you should go to bed,” says Phil. “Don’t want you to be sore for work tomorrow.”

His eyes crack open to find darkness. The TV’s off now and the sky is almost completely black. The red light from the Wii’s power button shines just next to where Phil’s pale cheek is barely visible. 

There’s a moment where neither of them say anything. Then Phil’s chuckling and reaching around Dan to help him to his feet again. To drag him up and hold him steady. A hand stays pressed to Dan’s back as Phil leads him from the lounge to his bedroom.

Half-asleep, Dan can feel every bone in his body. The crack of his knees and shakiness of his ankle and knots following the line of his spine. The press of Phil’s hand to his back so warm it burns.

“Goodnight Dan,” he hears, and realizes only then that they’re standing at his door. 

“Night,” he mumbles back.

He slips into his bedroom, falls onto the mattress on his stomach, ignores that sharp pain in his ribs that follows him all the way to sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

Dan’s feet hurt.

It’s a stupid observation, the kind that flits aimlessly through his mind for the upteenth time in a week and fades away with a roll of his eyes. He’s trudging from the elevator to his door, and his shoes feel too heavy. His ankle pops with every step. Cramps ache in the arch of his foot but he ignores them like he has been for years.

Another week of work weighs heavy on his shoulders and his bones are ready to collapse under the weight. Something invisible is stabbing him in the knees from standing for so long. His arms feel the weight of strangers’ grocery bags tugging at his fingertips. His head dips forward because his neck is too weak to hold it upright.

The flat’s empty when Dan shoves the door open. The TV screen is black. The kitchen cupboards still open.

Phil leaves them that way after making breakfast. Dan’s developed a habit of noticing, letting the annoyance fester between his ribs, and leaving them that way. He rarely has the energy to follow in Phil’s footsteps before work in the morning.

He never does once his shift is finished and his body has given up, either.

He toes his shoes off with a hiss, wobbling on his feet, and gripping at the door handle to keep him upright. His name tag comes off only three steps into the apartment, and he tosses it onto the breakfast bar. He tugs his shirt over his head as he reaches the lounge.

The drag of fabric over his skin has a groan rumbling up his throat. A burning flare erupts over Dan’s ribs and tears come as quickly as he blinks them away. The blue polo lands on the floor. He presses his palm, warm and flat and secure, against the sizzle of nerves beneath his skin.

His bedroom is only a few steps away, but a glance down the hall has his knees trembling. A tear rolls down his cheek, causing his eyes to ache in the faint lighting of the room.

He takes two more steps and lets himself collapse onto the sofa. There’s a throw pillow pressed hard against his neck and another that he wedges his toes under. Sunlight flits through the windows and Dan closes his eyes to ignore it. He leaves the TV off, and smoothes a hand over his chest.

Trying to soothe the hurt.

It’s leached into his ribs, wrapped its way around his lungs. Dan presses harder, sucks in a breath through his nose, counting out one, two, three, four. The familiarity comes then, in puffs of air, silent as his lips form words he doesn’t need to speak. He exhales with a shudder and a cry, with a finger pressing to the gap between two bones where the pain has blazed into something more.

Another inhale. His head spins and his toes curl with the pain.

Another exhale. A whimper wells at the back of his throat.

He presses his head against the cushion as hard as he can, waits for the stab that blooms in the back of his neck.

Counts. One, two, three, four.

Inhales.

Exhales.

And continues until his mind gives up on easing his body, fading into a cloudy mess of _ow_ and _breathe_ and _two, four, three, one_ , and goes dark.

\---

“Dan?”

He hears himself groan at the sound. A hazy half-awareness sweeps across his mind. There’s a hand pressed to his shoulder, a circle being rubbed against his skin. His knees are pressed to his chest. His pants are scratchy too. His back is stuck to the leather of the sofa. The hand on his shoulder squeezes.

He hears himself hiss.

“Dan.”

It’s a breath this time, and the hand pulls away.

Dan cracks his eyes open, even though the afternoon sun still shines too bright, and still burns. His hand is wedged between his thigh and his chest, the other curled tight around his knee. His vision blurs out of focus, peppers black around the edges until he blinks it away once, and again, and again.

“Dan,” says Phil.

He’s sitting on the coffee table, leaning towards Dan. His eyes are too wide and his fingers are locked together in his lap. There’s a piece of blue fabric draped over his leg.

Dan remembers, a moment too late, that he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Are you okay?” asks Phil. His gaze is flitting across Dan’s body, and Dan hugs his knees tighter to his chest, feeling too exposed.

Dan’s too aware that his cheeks feel too red and his vision is still half out of focus and his skin is still stuck to the sofa.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “I just decided to take a nap after work.” He pauses. Phil’s still staring at his shoulder. “I, uh, figured I’d be up before you got home.”

Phil nods, slow and unsure. Dan wants to reach over and swipe his shirt from Phil’s hand, and throw it back over his shoulders like its normal and easy and his body isn’t still aching from his day. Like a week of trying to be normal doesn’t leave his body broken and bruised with an infinity of invisible aches.

There’s still a web of burning nerves locked tight around his chest. But he sucks in a breath and ignores it.

“I’m fine, Phil,” he says. “I’ll go change into normal clothes and we can play Mario?”

Another nod, just as slow and unfocused. Dan pushes himself up from the sofa, arms weak and shaky, head still hazy. If Phil were Taylor, he’d stay lying down, explaining that it takes a while for his brain to recover from sleep. That no amount of rest makes the broken parts of his body feel better.

But Phil doesn’t know and Dan still longs for easy nights playing video games and sharing pizza. He still can’t stand the idea of Phil looking at him with wide eyes and unfocused worry etched so obviously across his face.

So he stands, cheeks burning as he smiles against his wince, and says: “Can I have my shirt back?”

\---

They do play Mario, and make their way through half of world five before choosing to have dinner instead.

Phil glances at him too much, the fleeting kind as though to make sure Dan’s okay. But it’s been years since Dan learned he could hide a grimace with a lip bite, could look focused just by staring straight ahead, could count his breaths in his head without anyone caring enough to notice.

They beat the tower. Dizziness has welled at Dan’s temples from watching the sway of spikey walls and Phil mumbles something about food as he saves the game. Dan lets his head fall back against the sofa, his Wii remote falling to rest between his legs.

It takes Dan a few moments to realize that Phil’s actually making dinner. There’s the clatter of pots and pans that sounds from the kitchen, a rush of water from the faucet and Phil mumbling an _ow_ as he runs into the counter. The TV is silent and the sky’s starting to fade to shades of purple and the city’s  ever present glow.

Dan rolls his head against the back of the sofa, smiles at the sight of Phil standing there with a pot on the stove.

“Close the cupboard doors!” he shouts.

Phil turns around so quickly his fringe flops over the middle of his face. “Too much effort,” he says, his crooked grin creeping across his face.

“Please,” says Dan. “I don’t wanna have to get up to close them for you.”

Phil huffs, exaggerated and content. “Fine,” he says, reaching up to close just one of the cupboard doors. Dan groans when he leaves all the others untouched.

_“Phil .”_

He gets a laugh in response, and watches as Phil tries to tear open a bag of pasta, only to give up and use scissors instead.

“Oh, and don’t forget to use water.”

Phil scoffs. “I’m not an idiot, Dan.”

His cheeks heat up at the words. A laugh rumbles painfully through his chest.

“Yeah, only idiots would do that,” says Dan. “And neither one of us are idiots so-”

“You forgot to use water once, didn’t you?”

The bubbling of boiling water sounds now. Phil’s stepped forward so he’s sitting at the breakfast bar, legs parted over one of the stools there. His tongue sticks out from between his lips when he laughs. Dan feels his cheeks get warmer at the sight, and he presses his face against the sofa to hide it.

“I might have,” he mumbles. “ _Once._ ”

“Then why’d you buy pasta?”

Dan chuckles, feels the movement ricochet between his ribs. “I might have been too scared to try again after that incident,” he says. “And might have hoped you’re an adultier adult than me.”

Phil laughs then, too. Dan looks back up to see his hands clenching tight around the edge of the barstool, his wide smile, his fringe that still falls over one of his eyes. Dan wants to reach for him, and swipe it to the side. He reaches up to run his fingers across his own fringe instead.

“Is knowing how to cook pasta the main qualification for being an adult?”

“It’s the most important one,” says Dan.

The water is boiling now. Phil gets up to dump the pasta into the pot. His shoulders still shake with laughter, and Dan makes himself look away for a moment.

“Good to know that’s what four years of uni gets me,” says Phil.

He falls silent then. The noise from Phil’s cooking still fills the flat and Dan lets his eyes fall closed as he listens. It sounds more like home, in a mundane sort of way, than the uni dorms ever had. Him, sitting in silence with waves of discomfort rippling across his skin as he listens to other people live their lives.

His chest tightens at the thought, the flicker of a memory that has his eyes popping back open. Phil’s turned around now, too, leaning over the breakfast bar with a twisted smile.

“Sorry,” says Phil. “Is uni a sore subject? I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine.” he says. “I’m just taking a break.”

It feels like a lie, the kind that falls from his tongue without a moment’s guilt because he’s learned to live wrapped in their security. Learned to force himself to believe them or crumble under the crushing weight of a reality his mind can never fully grasp.

Phil nods, though, and offers half a smile. “What were you studying?”

“Law.”

“Really?” says Phil. He’s grinning now, full and happy, and Dan’s lie that he’s going to go back starts to crumble at the edges. “That’s not what I would have expected. How much time did you spend reading?”

“Too much,” says Dan. “And probably still not enough.”

Phil laughs. The pot of pasta’s lid is starting to clatter behind him. “I don’t know how you did it,” he says. “I thought my linguistics degree was hard.”

The lie cracks again. Dan’s teeth catch his lip as Phil turns around to turn down the heat. His head is heavy with more than just the swirl of anxiety that comes with conversations about uni. Light reflects too brilliantly off white walls and his eyes are starting to strain to stay open. Dan stares at where the deep blue of Phil’s collar has rolled up to cover his neck, and swallows a jumble of words only to speak anyway.

“I didn’t do it, really.”

Phil’s shoulders go tense then. Dan looks away, lets his eyes fall closed as he presses his cheek to the sofa. His cheeks are still too warm, and the leather is cold against his skin.

He can hear Phil drawing closer. There’s the soft sound of his footsteps and the scrape of a stool against the floor and a cough so quiet Dan’s not sure he was supposed to hear it. When he looks back up, Phil’s sitting on a stool again, head dipped and fringe hiding his eyes.

“Can I ask why you left?”

Dan swallows, thinks of long nights spent crying instead of sleeping because the pain seemed to have woven its way into his bones. Of the times he fell asleep in lectures because his body just couldn’t sit up straight for long enough. Of a night he’d decided to binge read the textbook and spent the next week barely able to open his eyes. Of the time Taylor had dragged him out of the co-ed bathroom because he’d almost passed out after his shower.

Phil sweeps his fringe out of his eyes, and stares. His eyes are so sincere, so blue.

Dan looks away. He presses his thumb to the inside of his knee until it hurts so much he can’t make himself exhale. And he shrugs.

“I just needed to figure some stuff out, I guess.”

\---

It’s still early by the time they finish dinner. The sky’s not yet gone dark and the TV is still lit up with the Wii’s pause menu.Dan’s ribs expand around words he can’t say, and his knee still aches from how he jammed his thumb against it. Phil had pressed himself against the armrest when he sat down, curled up far away to eat his pasta, and Dan hates the fear that lingers in his eyes.

The guilt that shines there.

So he sets his plate down on the coffee table, offering a shary smile. “What was uni like for you? You said you studied linguistics, right?”

Phil looks up, all wide eyes and careful words. “For my Bachelors, yeah, English language and linguistics,” he says.“And then I did my Masters in video post-production with visual effects.”

It’s slow and soft and too careful. It reminds Dan too much of Taylor.

“Is that what you do now?”

He shrugs. “I work for a video editing company. I got an internship right after uni and it turned into an actual job.”

“You must love it,” says Dan. “If you decided to get a Masters in it.”

Phil swallows, reaches over to set his plate down too. Dan finds himself sinking deeper into the cushions, eyes aching too much to follow Phil’s every move. Fatigue is starting to cloud the edges of his mind. He can feel the cushions dip as Phil adjusts himself on the sofa, the press of fabric to the back of his legs, to his spine.

It hurts, in a dull, achy sort of way he only cares about when things already ache with phantom stabs and non-existent burns.

“It’s okay,” says Phil. “I wouldn’t say I love it though. Not what I’m doing right now, at least.”

Dan nods, hums.

Phil stays quiet for a long moment, adjusting his position on the couch again before standing and returning to the kitchen. The clatter of dishes echos through the room. Dan can feel the vibrations of it in his ear, echoing in flares of pain at his temples. There’s running water and Phil dropping everything into the sink and the squeak of bare skin on leather when he climbs back onto the sofa.

He’s still quiet then, for another minute that has Dan’s brain going fuzzy, before saying: “You okay?”

He asks that a lot. Dan wonders how long it’ll be before Phil stops believing his utterances of _I’m fine._

“Yeah,” he mumbles, cracks his eyes open. It’s still too bright, the faded colours of the TV and light from the kitchen bleeding into white blurs at his peripheral. “Work is just draining.”

“Oh,” says Phil. “Yeah, I guess retail can be like that.”

Dan’s eyes are closed again when he nods. His one hand curls around his knee, his thumb smoothing over the spot that still throbs under his touch, and sends shots of pain radiating down his shin and up his thigh. The other arm drapes across his chest, holding together his ribcage that’s starting to feel like it may shatter if he breathes too deeply.

“You should sleep,” says Phil.

Dan smiles, even though it feels bitter on his lips. “I work again tomorrow.”

“Then you should definitely.”

He waits a moment anyway. Lets himself stay there where his back is supported by cushions and his legs don’t need to appear pain free as he walks. But Phil’s concern is palpable and it drags Dan to his feet, has him stumbling down the hall to his bedroom.

He’s still wearing his scratchy work shirt when he collapses onto his bed, curling up with a pillow under his neck and another beneath his chest. With his pants rolled up to his knees and a duvet wrapped, too warm, around his feet.

Sleep doesn’t come until after he’s tossed and turned for hours. Heard the echo of Phil’s easy goodnight wishes in his mind over and over and over again.

Until he’s wondered how long it’ll take until Phil starts to see through the cracks in Dan’s lies.


	8. Chapter 8

Dan barely sleeps that night.

He wakes up when the clock on his phone lights up with 11:18. He’s shivering. Cold seems to have leached into his bones, turning them to ice. He feels like they might fracture at the slightest of pressure. There’s still a dash of light beneath his bedroom door. Pain swirls beneath his skull, tenses in his stomach.

His feet are numb, and he stumbles over to his suitcase, fumbling for a box of probably expired sleeping pills he’s had since before he started uni.

When he crawls back into bed, it’s with his softest blanket wrapped around him too tightly, his duvet pulled up to his neck.

He swallows the pills without a drink. The pressure of them lingers in his throat for as long as he lies there, shaking and squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain, 

His eyes hurt too much to open them the next time he wakes up. Dan rolls onto his back, ignoring the jolt of pain that races down his spine. The back of his mind wonders if Phil’s gone to bed yet, how quiet the city is, how late into the night he’s slept. The rest of it focuses too intently on the twinge of a nerve between his toes, and the ache that stabs at the jutting bones of his wrists. 

And between his ribs. And at the back of his neck. And at his hips. And—

He rolls over, bringing his tangle of blankets with him as they grate across his skin. The collar of his work shirt has rolled up, and left scribbles of irritation across his throat. He can still feel the pills his body forgot he swallowed. 

Shades of black swirl behind his eyelids. Dan tries to count sheep, but he ends up counting his breaths instead.

He wakes five more times that night. Rolls around and readjusts and lets stinging tears roll down his cheeks, stain his pillow. His breathing grows uneven. His chest hurts with every beat of his heart. He can feel his pulse throbbing in his head, his stomach, his fingertips. The pillows too lumpy and his pain meds are too far away, and his fractured dreams are of rocks crushing his body, pinning him to his mattress. 

The last time he wakes is before his alarm rings. Nausea burns in his throat and dizziness ghosts across his scalp, and his cheeks are damp even though he doesn’t remember crying. He throws the blankets off his body and pushes himself to sit up, even though his arms quiver under his weight. 

His feet hurt when he stands. So do his knees and hips, and that spot at the middle of his shins that always aches for no reason. 

He leaves his bedroom without a thought, needing to escape the white walls and the too-hard surface of his mattress. The hallway glows with morning light, too white, too bright and absolutely awful. Dan’s feet feel numb. Something crawls uncomfortably under his toenails. His ankles quake as he stumbles forward, trips over his heel to fall onto the sofa.

A gasp sounds from the kitchen, and Dan’s shoulders go tense. He rolls his head against the sofa cushion, to see Phil standing by the fridge. 

His vision is blurry. Dan wonders when that started.

But he can still tell that Phil’s dressed for work. He’s not wearing his glasses and there’s a mug held between his hands and he’s staring back at Dan with what looks like a frown. 

“Did you sleep in that?”

Dan looks down. The blue of his Tesco uniform gleams back at him. It’s twisted over his chest and wrinkled from a night of tossing and turning. One of his pant legs is rolled up to his knee. He slaps at it until it unravels and the nerves of his leg blaze where he touched.

“No,” he chokes. The phantom pressure of pills lingers in his throat. “Just wanted to get ready for work early.”

Phil hums. Dan’s spine wants to collapse forward, curl him into a ball until the touch of his thighs to his chest starts to hurt too. He listens to the fridge door close, blinking the blurriness from his eyes that only worsens with the incessant well of tears. 

Even his exhaustion hazy brain doesn’t believe his lies anymore.

But Phil doesn’t say another word. He waits a few minutes, before throwing on a jacket, and opening the door. His quiet  _ goodbye  _ slices through Dan’s ears as he lets himself fall onto the sofa.

\---

_ Dan: hes gonna find out _

_ Dan: I dont want him to know _

_ Dan: dont want him to worry _

_ Taylor: you should tell him _

\---

“You look like shit, Howell.”

It’s a stranger’s voice that filters through his mind, hazy and echoing and painful. 

Dan’s shirt is still wrinkled from the night. He hadn’t bothered to straighten his hair. His arms hurt too much to lift them above his head and his hands shake when he tries to hold something. He can still hear the rush of Manchester, the bustle of human beings existing that grates at his aching mind. 

Tesco is lit up with blinding fluorescence and Dan stares at his feet. It hurts just a little less.

“I’m fine,” he says. A mumble because his throat is tight and his mouth is dry and he doesn’t care what strangers think about him.

He just needs to get through the day.

Just needs to be okay.

\---

He almost makes it.

There’s an hour left to his shift the last time he checks the clock. 

Tesco is quiet as the lunch rush fades and his fingers grip too tightly to the counter in front of him, head dipped. The girl at the register behind him chats with a voice that’s too chipper, and he swallows against the urge to tell her to shut up. Dan wishes he had the ability to tune out the world and narrow his awareness down to a desperate need to stay standing.

To be okay.

His feet are numb. His kneecaps tingle, and his tendons feel too tight. He rocks on his heels, and his ankles wobble and crack and almost give out. He can feel the creeping web of nerves along the top of his foot. The press of his heel bone to the sole of his shoe. An aching pressure that makes him want to tear off his toenails. The catch of his trousers on the hair of his legs that pulls and hurts and has him wincing.

A woman with a carton of milk and a chocolate bar shows up at the register.

Dan smiles. 

His hips pop when he stands up straight. The bumps of his vertebrae seem to collapse onto each other. He sucks in a breath to say hello, but the words get tangled in his lungs and come out as a cough instead. There’s a jerk through his ribs, and a stutter of his racing heart, and he forces a smile to keep himself from pressing a hand to his sternum or doubling over with the pain. 

“Did you find everything you need today?”

He scans the milk. The chocolate bar. His hands are shaking so much he can see it. 

The woman can too. 

He tucks her items into a bag. His arms feel like they’re being squeezed. Something invisible presses against a nerve in his elbow, and stabs between the bones of his wrist. A nerve twinges between his fingers. Another burns over the outside of his forearm. He pulls the bag from its hooks, but it slips from his fingers before he can hand it over. 

“Are you okay, sir?”

His head feels too heavy. Too light. Black dots the edges of his vision. 

He blinks. It stays dark. 

“I’m-”

And his knees give out.

\---

When he blinks back into consciousness he’s lying on Tesco’s floor, and the too-chipper girl is kneeling over him. There’s a hand on his shoulder and a rush of noise in his ears, and questions are being spoken at him over and over and over again. 

“ _ Ow _ .”

The hand squeezes his arm. He reaches up and slaps it away.

“Dan,” says the girl. “Dan, are you okay?”

He swallows. His mouth is too dry, and spots of black still dot his vision. “I’m fine,” he says. “Happens sometimes.”

“Can you sit up?”

He’s not sure, but he does. She holds his shoulder and drags him up, and Dan winces through the pain. The woman he’d been serving isn’t there anymore. Just as he’s being settled against the register, his manager steps up behind the girl, all wayward collar and furrowed brows. 

“Do I need to call an ambulance, Dan?”

Dan swallows. His fingertips are tingling and half his vision is still out of focus. “No, Sue,” he says. “I just haven’t eaten anything today.”

His manager nods. “Sam, take him to the break room,” she says. “I’ll call your emergency contact.”

The girl, Sam, nods. She reaches for him again, looping a hand around his shoulders, and helps draw him to his feet. He groans, and hopes she thinks it’s from exertion rather than the pain burning all the way down his legs. His femur feels like it could crack beneath him now, and his ankle cracks when he takes a step. 

She leads him through the halls, to the break room he’s avoided since his first shift, and makes him sit on the sofa.

The cushions are too hard against his spine, but he lets his head dip back anyway, feeling the shutter of breath in his chest, and the uncomfortable pass of air over his lips.

Sam doesn’t say a word. Dan stares at the ceiling, watching spots fade in and out of his vision until the door cracks open again.

“Taylor’s on her way.”

He lifts his head, blinks away the darkness until he can see his Sue’s face. His mouth is too dry and words grate at his throat as he speaks. “Thanks. For calling her.”

“Of course,” says his manager. “Is there anything I get for you?”

Dan’s head has already fallen back against the sofa. He wants to fold his legs underneath him and wait for them to go numb so the pain goes away. Wants to fold into a ball and cry until he can’t open his eyes anymore, can’t breathe without agony or gather thoughts from the tangled mess of his consciousness. 

His head is spinning. His shirt is scratchy. Nausea churns in his stomach, and his mind flickers to that first day in Phil’s hallway, curled up in a ball and ill.

“Dan?” says his manager.

Dan’s jaw pops when he speaks.

“Crisps?”

\---

Taylor shows up with quiet steps and a hushed voice. She’s wearing leggings and a hoodie and listens to Dan’s manager recount what happened with her head dipped. Dan stays on the sofa, eyes closed, trying not to focus on the tangled paths his nerves trace along his torso, and down his limbs. On the slice of crisps down his throat as he swallows. 

It only takes a few moments. His manager asks Taylor to take him home, and she walks over to him without asking anything. 

He lets her hand coast along his chest, curl around his ribcage. The other clutches at his shoulder, so tight it hurts. She hauls him to his feet, and holds him to her chest when he wobbles on weak legs.

There’s a burning ghost of a handprint on his chest, a haunting weight crushing his spine. He follows her from the break room with small steps and shaking hands. 

His manager wishes him well. His face hurts too much to respond. 

Taylor lets him pile into the cab. Doesn’t say anything when he refuses to draw the seatbelt over his body. He can already feel the tingle of pain where the fabric would press, too tight, against his chest. His head dips to fall against the window. The cold of the glass makes an invisible bruise burst across his forehead.

Dan listens to Taylor rattle off his address to the cab driver. The words grip at his mind, and have him reaching out to clutch to her knee.

“You’re taking me to my flat?”

“Would you rather go to the hospital?” she asks. 

“No.”

“Then yes, I’m taking you to your flat.”

Arguments flit, blurry, at the edges of his mind. Words curl at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t remember their syllables. The car is rumbling beneath him, sending vibrations rattling along his bones. His head bumps against the window when they turn.

He feels the ache of his whimper before he hears it. 

“He’s gonna find out,” he whispers. 

Taylor reaches over, and lets her hand sit on the seat behind his shoulder. It’s not a touch, not the comforting squeeze of his knee she used to offer. He wonders, briefly, if she’s ever seen him this ill. If this is worst for her than the days he spent half-blind with agony. 

If she knows the touch of his own hand is enough to send his body unraveling in a mess of unpleasant sensation. 

“You should have told him,” she says.

Dan pretends he doesn’t know its true.

\---

His shoes come off first when he gets home. Taylor slips them off for him, mumbling about how she doesn’t trust him to not pass out again. His back is against wall, and he can feel the jut of his shoulder blades, the ridges of his spine, and the bumps at the base of skull press into it hard as he tries to stay standing. 

His shirt comes off next, three steps into the flat and he’s tearing it from his body, listening to his nametag clatter against the floor. His arms hurt with the movement, and the scratchy fabric leaves gashes of hurt on his skin, and his chest is too tight for the sigh of relief he breathes. 

He’s halfway to the lounge when he starts pushing his trousers down his legs, any concern that Taylor’s watching dying at the scrape of the fabric over his thighs, the brush of it at his ankles, and the tightness of it at his knees. Dan leaves them on the floor, stumbles over to the sofa.

The leather is cold, and hurts where it touches his skin.

He settles down with arms draped over his chest, and curls tickling at the back of his neck. His feet are tingling, freezing cold. His head sinks too heavily against the armrest, feeling too heavy on his neck.

Taylor brings him the blanket from his bedroom, draping it over the back of the sofa.

He closes his eyes because the walls are too bright, tries to tune out the echo of her footsteps that he can feel in his ears. The fridge opens and closes. A drawer does too. She returns to his side, and sits on the coffee table in front of him.

“Where does it hurt the most?” 

It’s a whisper. He jabs his hand harder against his ribs to answer, hissing at the pressure. Taylor reaches for his fingers, drags them away, sets a bag of frozen something in their place.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he hisses.

Tears prickle in his eyes at the cold. His fingers grip, too tight, at his sides. His gasp has the bag shifting over his chest, chilling more parts of his skin, making him cry out again.

“I’m sorry,” says Taylor. “You’ll adjust and it’ll help, okay, Dan?”

He nods. His teeth dig into his lip until the pain has him gasping for a breath.

“You need to breathe.”

Another nod. He doesn’t exhale. 

Taylor reaches over, presses her hand to the armrest above his head. The cold feels like its bruising his skin. His feet have gone numb. His hair feels like its pulling at his scalp. His fingers are starting to shake with weakness from how tight he’s clutching at himself.

“Dan.”

Holding the shattering parts of himself together.

“Please, you need to breathe.”

His eyes hurt too much to open them.

“Count with me, okay?”

His throat is too tight for words.

“One.”

His jaw is locked shut.

“Two.”

His back arches off the sofa.

“Three.”

His fingers give out.

“Breathe.”

And he exhales on a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! I know I've been really bad at responding to comments on this fic, but I just wanted to thank everyone who's read this story for doing so, and everyone who commented for their support. I am beyond glad that people like my work, and your response to this story has been one of the most validating things in my life. oh, and come talk to me on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](https://huphilpuffs.tumblr.com/) if you want!


	9. Chapter 9

The door creaks when it opens.

Dan’s been curled up on the couch for hours. He’s moved the makeshift ice pack down to his knees, and pressed a warm washcloth to the back of his neck and wrapped his torso in the softness of his favourite blanket. There’s a pillow Taylor brought him wedged under his head and darkness floods the flat.

The TV’s off, and even though Dan knows that noise would grate at his ears, he longs for something to distract him from the whisper of his own voice counting his breaths.

He hasn’t slept. Taylor found pain meds in Phil’s bathroom and forced him to take them. There’s a bottle of water sitting on the coffee table next to a bowl of crisps he hasn’t touched. Evening flashes beneath the sheet Taylor tried to use as a makeshift curtain, and slashes of light cut across the darkness of the lounge. Dan’s spent his day watching them come and go.

New light bleeds into the flat now, artificial and yellow, and enough to make Dan wince.

He hears Phil’s footsteps, heavy from his work shoes. Dan can imagine the slight unevenness of his collar and the way his shirt usually twists after work. The gaps between his fringe from a day of incessantly adjusting it and the slight smile that curls at the corners of his lips whenever he gets home.

“Dan?”

On a normal day, Dan would be sitting on the sofa with head tilted back and a Wii remote clutched between his hands. He would offer a smile and a promise that Phil could join the next game before easily coming in first on his round of Mario Kart.

But today, he clings to his blanket and nestles into his pillow, counting his breaths so he doesn’t forget to exhale. The TV is still off and Taylor disappeared into his bedroom mumbling something about privacy after Dan told her Phil should be getting home soon and—

Phil’s footsteps fall quiet.

Dan wonders if Taylor picked his clothes up off the floor.

“Are you taking a nap again?”

Phil’s voice is a whisper now, shy and confused.

Dan chokes on his inhale, whimpering when it has pain cramping in his chest. “No.”

Phil’s quiet for another second before rushing forward, footsteps quick and too loud, that pound against the inside of Dan’s skull. He settles on the coffee table, all wide eyes and parted lips. His collar is uneven, and his fringe has gaps where it feathers across his forehead, just as Dan had imagined.

Dan tries to crack a smile, but it comes with a hiss and the press of Dan’s palm to his sternum.

Phil’s eyes go wider. “Are you okay?”

Dan doesn’t respond to that. He knows that his hair is even more curly now than it was this morning. There’s a smear of water across his cheek where the washcloth fell and trails left by tears rolling down his nose. A towel wrapped around frozen food wedged between his knees and a blanket wrapped too carefully around his bare chest.

Phil watched him stumble out of his room in his work clothes this morning.

Walked in him taking a nap without the scratchy fabric clinging to his chest.

Walk in on ... this.

It seems to dawn on Phil then. His eyes go soft, lips fall closed into tense smile. His knuckles have blanched with how tightly he's clinging to his knees; Dan wonders what he'd be doing if he'd let himself let go of that careful grip.

"What's wrong? Is it you blood pressure thing?" he asks.

It's shaky and scared and if his arms weren't too weak to do it, Dan would reach out for him, try to wipe some of the concern from his eyes. But his arm feels too heavy to move and his guy is twisting with the loud reminder that this is exactly what he didn't want.

Phil looks at him like Taylor does. Dan wishes he had a reality that could clear the way worry fogs the blue.

"No," he says instead. "It's nothing."

"Dan–"

"I'm not–" His lungs cut him off with a cough that has him pressing down on his chest and arching his back, making him forget entirely to cover his mouth. The explanation flits through his mind, but opening his mouth to speak has tears welling in his eyes.

Phil only looks more worried.

"I'm not just saying," whispers Dan.

Phil leans in closer, keeps staring at him.

"That's what they all say," continues Dan, "that it's nothing."

Phil doesn't look away. His eyes are shimmering and it takes Dan a moment to realize it's because he's tearing up. His lips are pressed into a scowl. His hands look like they could bruise his knees if he holds onto them any longer.

Dan's chest aches with the need for it to be easy again. His fingers curl around a Wii remote he's not holding, and his mind chimes in with memories of how Phil's tongue sticks up from between his teeth when he laughs and he needs–

"It's fine," Dan says. "They checked it all and I'm fine."

There's no sigh of relief. No  _ oh that's good,  _ that fills the silence. Dan's fingers are tracing patterns in he flannel of his blanket because it only hurts a little bit, and his knees are locked so tight the frozen whatever has mostly slipped from between them.

And Phil's still staring.

His gaze sweeps along Dan's body. He looks at how Dan's toes are curled with tension. At the ice pack between his legs. The gentle sway of his hips because it keeps some of the acute pain away. At where the blanket just barely covers the tops of Dan's thighs, and where his collar bones peak out from the top of it.

He sees Dan's eyes, how much effort it takes to keep them open.

"I don't care what they said," says Phil. "I want to know how you feel."

\---

He's crying.

It happens in a second. Phil's staring at him with such sincerity in his eyes, and the tears that have pressed incessantly behind Dan's well, start to roll down his cheeks. His hand is still pressed to his sternum, and his ribs crack on a stuttered breath and he can feel the pressure of a whimper escaping him without hearing a sound.

Phil gasps. He jumps to his feet and reaches for Dan. But he doesn't touch.

Dan could cry from that, too.

"Does it hurt that bad?" asks Phil. "Shit, Dan are you okay?"

His other hand comes up to cover his face, to press against the bones of his cheeks and tip of his nose, and  _ ow. _

Dan almost lies. But his throat closes around his denial. So he nods, frantic and painful.

"Yes your okay or yes–"

His chest is so  _ tight.  _ He tries to rub the tension away. " _ Yes _ ," he hisses. Another tear rolls down his cheek. The touch of his fingers is too painful to wipe it away. "To both."

Phil freezes then. Even with his eyes closed, Dan can feel how quickly he stills, the tension it takes to just stand there. He's staring, too. Dan can feel his gaze leave trails over his body, wonders if he's following the burning lines of broken nerves. Or maybe the crushing invisibility of muscle pain, of the agony that's anchored itself to his bones.

He's suddenly too aware that his body is covered only by a blanket and a small pair of pants.

Knows too well that Phil's not staring at this.

"This is  _ fine  _ for you?”

Dan laughs, dry and pained and bitter. He lowers his hand from his face, smearing tears down to his chin as he does so. There's still the press of something squeezing his arms and the parts of his ribs that don't want to expand around his breath and a jabbing pain in his shin that's been there for years.

For  _ years. _

"Phil," he murmurs. "This is normal for me."

Phil's mouth falls open, but he doesn't say a word. Dan's grown used to people not knowing what to say, but there's still an ache in his heart heavy enough to be heard over the constant influx of pain from his body.

He wants to reach out, to wrap a hand around Phil's wrist and make him sit down. He wishes he had the words to explain  _ we've been roommates for a couple weeks and now I have to tell you that sometimes my body hurts so much I can't move, but don't worry doctors say it's no cause for concern so you can go about your day as normal. _

Phil, he knows, isn't the type to just go about his day. Not after this.

He sits back down on the coffee table, burying his head in his hands. 

Dan’s chest is starting to hurt more from his uneven breathing. Words feel like they cut along his throat. Something tugs in his temples and stabs behind his eyes to tether him to awareness. Dan wishes he could just let it go and ignore Phil’s need to know. 

There’s a part of his heart that wishes he could just disappear for a few days and return to easy evenings spent playing video games with his roommate.

He does let his eyes slip closed after a moment. He needs to adjust the pillow under his torso and untwist the blanket around around his chest, but he’s still not wearing any clothes and Phil’s still so close Dan could reach out and press his hand to Phil’s knee.

So he settles into the sofa, eyes closed and breath even, and waits. For questions and confusion and a bitter voice demanding an explanation for things kept secret.

Phil does speak, eventually, but what he says is: “Can I help you?”

Dan almost starts crying again.

\---

Taylor comes out of Dan’s bedroom after so long that Dan had forgotten she was there.

Her steps are slow, and she doesn’t say a word until she’s standing in the lounge. Dan can’t bother to fight the pain to look at her, doesn’t care enough to see how she’s looking at him and Phil. 

“I should get back to uni,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure he was safe.”

Phil’s voice cracks with sincerity when he responds: “Thank you.”

There’s a few more steps. Taylor comes over to the back of the couch, reaches down to adjust the now-cold washcloth on his neck. “Stop being an idiot, Howell,” she says. Dan ignores the fact that Phil can hear her every word. “He obviously wants to help you. Let him, okay?”

Dan hums, offering a smile. He still doesn’t need to open his eyes to talk to Taylor. Doesn’t need to see her worry.

She leaves quickly then, rushing to the door and offering nothing but a quick goodbye. The door closes before Phil’s  _ have a good day  _ dies on his lips. 

Dan chuckles, wincing as he does. “Taylor’s not big on–” he sucks in a breath, and blows it out slowly “–social interaction.”

Phil laughs then, too, quiet and weighted with sadness. “That makes two of us.”

\---

Adrenaline fades, and Dan’s body forgets how to function.

The TV’s still off and the sheet still acts as a makeshift curtain. Dan’s wedged his pillow between his neck and the edge of the armrest, draped a crease-less blanket over his ribs so the softness of it tickles his sternum as he breathes. 

There’s a new ice pack that Phil brought him sitting on his ankles. Two hot washcloths curl around the back of his neck and drape over the ridges of his collarbones. 

Phil’s pacing. Dan counts his breath to the beat of his footsteps.

His arms are heavy and achy, and his legs twitch with shots of pain down his shins. His hips and ribs are being pulled apart by nothing, and squeezed so tightly today they bruise at the pressure. The movement of his hand has stabs of agony flowing from his hails to his elbows. The dip between sofa cushions leaves a pained portion of his spine unsupported.

His eyes are closed and his brain and body hurts, and all he can do is lie there and try to breathe.

Phil walks from the lounge to the kitchen.  _ One, two, three, four, five.  _ Dan holds his breath, waiting while Phil pauses his pacing. One second, and two, and three, and he walking again. Dan’s exhale is an easy release, open-mouthed and warm, enough to make his chest feel like it might cave in.

It’s always enough to make his chest feel like it might cave in.

He follows Phil’s steps for three more trips between the sofa and the breakfast bar. Listens to shaky breathing and wonders what thoughts are circling Phil’s mind. If they ever get as foggy and disorienting as Dan’s do. If he’s putting pieces of the puzzle together.

If in a few days, he’ll still be willing to help Dan.

His pacing stops in the lounge this time. Dan tries to remember to maintain his breathing pattern, and counts in his head, letting the silence saturate the aching parts of his mind.

“Do you want something to eat?” says Phil.

A smile quirks at the corner of Dan’s mouth. “Can’t,” he says. “Hurts to swallow.”

“Oh,” says Phil, and he starts pacing again.

\---

Dan stays on the couch, curled up with pointless pain relief methods for hours. 

Phil keeps pacing, sitting, never saying a word and only leaving the lounge to go to the bathroom. 

Dan usually longs for the influx of stimuli, something to watch, something to listen to. Needs something to distract him from the aching nerves that weave down his arms and legs and between his vertebrae. But he can feel the burn of light behind his eyes and feel the aching vibration of sound and he almost wants to tell Phil to go away so it all stops can Dan can wallow with his broken body alone.

It must be evening by now, Dan figures. The blazing brilliance of daytime has faded to a glow that should be more tolerable but it still burns the surface of his strained eyes. Phil’s been home so long Dan’s pretty sure he can tell where his roommate’s standing from how the sound of his steps carries through the flat.

Dizzy fatigue is starting to draw more at the back of his mind, the kind that has his stomach aching and eyes too heavy to open. There’s a quiet tapping to keep him company, to irritate the edges of his mind even as it reminds him he’s not alone.

“Phil?”

His throat’s dry. Talking hurts. 

“Yeah? Do you need anything?”

Dan hums. “‘M tired.”

“Oh,” says Phil. The tapping of his fingers stops. Dan listens to him walk from the kitchen back to the lounge, until he’s standing at the end of the couch where Dan’s feet rest. “Do you want to sleep here? If it’s comfier for you, I mean, because I can–”

“Phil.” 

He falls silent.

“‘Wanna go to my bed,” he says, “but ‘m too dizzy to stand alone.”

“Oh.”

Phil just stands there for a moment. And then he’s rushing forward with shuffling steps, standing between the couch and the coffee table. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispers.

Dan nods. 

Phil reaches forward, and slowly pulls the cold washcloth from the back of Dan’s neck. He takes their makeshift ice pack of the day from Dan’s legs. Tugs at the fabric of Dan’s blanket until it slips free from under his weight and can be set aside. 

His fingers coast along Dan’s hand, hesitant and soft, and it feels like too much to Dan’s over sensitive nervous system. It’s just enough to have his breath catching. 

“Do you want help sitting?”

“Please.”

Phil’s palm closes around his, and Dan swallows back a gasp, feeling the press of it against the inside of his ribcage. He tugs slightly, and Dan forces himself to sit up against the stabbing agony in his spine, the shots of pain that travel down his arms.

He sinks against the cushions afterwards, chest heaving and breaths not quite enough, hands drawn up in front of him by Phil’s grasp. It takes Dan a moment to filter through the onslaught of hurt to realize that Phil’s rubbing circles against the sore bones of his hands. 

Despite it all, it draws a smile to Dan’s face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Dan. “Help me stand?”

He does, with the same careful pressure and patience for Dan’s broken joints. He holds on and lets Dan tug himself up, looping an arm around Dan’s waist—his  _ bare  _ waist—when he wobbles on his feet. 

“‘M dizzy,” he hears himself mumble.

“Rest your head on my shoulder,” says Phil.

So he does. With one of Phil’s hands resting on his hip and his head on Phil’s shoulder, he stumbles through the flat. To the bathroom first, cheeks burning even as his head spins. And then to his bedroom, all white walls and no furniture, and a mattress he knows will press too hard against every tender point of his body. 

Phil’s thumb drifts at his side, brushes over the spot where Dan’s last rib burns under his skin.

“You okay?”

Dan nods.

And Phil lets him go, gentle and hesitant, his hands hovering over Dan’s frame as though he expects him to topple over. Like he knows Dan’s body is tempted to do just that. 

“If you need anything, call for me, okay?”

“Okay,” says Dan. He pauses, one hand coming up to rest on the doorframe, his body canting towards his empty bed. “Phil?”

“Yeah?”

Dan swallows, looking away because Phil’s eyes are too blue and too worried, and the pressure in his chest suddenly feels like more than just illness.

“I’ll explain, okay? When I’m feeling better, I’ll explain.”

When he looks back up, Phil’s eyes are as soft as his smile. “Okay,” he says. “Get some sleep now, Dan.”

He nods one more time before stumbling forward, letting Phil pull the door closed behind him. His pillow and blanket are sitting on his laptop. Phil must have rushed them here during Dan’s bathroom break. He smiles at the sight, and reaches for them in a feeble attempt to get comfortable.

Dan knows he won’t sleep well.

He counts his breaths to the memory of Phil’s thumb sweeping over his skin, and gets comfortable enough to make waking moments of distress nerves and aching bones a little more tolerable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to anyone reading this story. come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story was previously titled _caught in a landslide_. if anyone's curious as to why I changed it, I explain in a tumblr post [here](https://huphilpuffs.tumblr.com/post/173731305981/hi-i-need-opinions).

The second day is always the worst.

Dan spends the night awake, staring aimlessly into the emptiness, watching haunting shades of darkness drift across his vision where he knows the white of his bedroom wall is. His duvet is too heavy over his fragile limbs, and his breathing still hurts too much to stay even. 

He falls asleep for short moments, and wakes to bones so heavy he barely move. Five seconds of consciousness and tears well in his eyes, sobs break between his ribs. One arm is throbbing and one leg feels like it’s being stabbed, and he rolls onto his side with a groan so loud it cracks in his throat.

His mouth is dry and his cheeks are wet, and he breathes through his mouth even though air scrapes at his throat. He counts the stutters of his own ribcage as he inhales and exhales and inhales again until mind forgets to remember what’s happening.

Until all he can feel is the winding paths of nerves that sting with unwarranted agony.

At some point, Phil’s bedroom door opens and closes. The sound pricks at the inside of his ears. He rolls over again, turning to where a dash of light glows beneath his door, ignoring the grate of his sheets against his skin. His one arm is throbbing from how long he’d spent lying on it and his legs are prickling with numbness as he stares at the door until his eyes refuse to stay open any longer.

He pictures Phil getting ready for work, the crispness of his button downs and the backpack he sometimes throws over his shoulder before leaving. Eating cereal that’s too grainy for Dan to swallow, drinking coffee that would burn his throat, walking around on knees that don’t threaten to give out beneath his weight.

His chest heaves with a sigh before he throws himself onto his stomach, whimpering at the press of the mattress to his tender skin, to the pained cage of his ribs. 

He lets his breathing slow. His thoughts bleed together and his fingers quiver in pain, and he gives up on counting until the dizziness is so bad it aches. 

And he still doesn’t count.

Not until he falls asleep.

\---

His brain is lingering in a useless state of semi-consciousness when someone knocks on his bedroom door. It takes no effort to feel the pressure squeezing at his thighs or the painful whatever the fuck that coasts over the rest of his body, but he has to force himself to blink his vision into focus, and lift his head to see the door.

“Come in,” he tries to yell. It splits his head, cracks on his tongue. 

He collapses against the pain, lets his head fall back onto his pillow and his eyes slip closed. 

“Hi, Dan,”

He blinks them open again. Taylor’s standing there, arms crossed over her stomach and head dipped, a shadow in his room, backlit with the light from the hallway.

“Close the door,” he hisses. “Too bright.”

She does, pulls it in slow so it doesn’t slam, and the only sound Dan does hear is the soft click of it falling into place. 

Silence follows. Dan’s eyes are closed against and Taylor isn’t moving from where she stands by the door. She’s staring at him. He can feel it, and wonders if she would be doing the same in the familiarity of his uni dorm room. If a day like today, with the pain blazing into agony, would have mattered if he hadn’t moved.

If he didn’t have a job.

“How’d you get in?” he asks.

He hears the clumsiness of Taylor’s steps as she steadies herself on her feet. “Phil let me in.”

“Phil has work.”

“Does he work in Rawtenstall?” asks Taylor.

Dan shakes his head. The lumps in his pillow drag across his neck and press painfully to sensitive skin. “Don’t think so,” he says. 

“Well then it’s not work he’s going to.”

Dan’s brain is too hazy to realize what she means by that, so he lets himself collapse deeper into his pillow. His jaw falls closed, and already hurts from talking. Part of him wishes she’d leave, to let him sleep or cry or lie around doing nothing with a numb brain and a body he desperately wishes could feel nothing.

But she doesn’t. She walks deeper into the room, and Dan hears the crack of a water bottle as she opens it. She leans down, and a plastic straw ghosts across Dan’s lips. He takes a sip, and another. Whatever it is tastes faintly of apples and something sour, and Dan cracks open his eyes to see what it is.

“Vitamin water?” he mumbles.

Taylor smiles. “Phil got it for you.”

“Where’d he go?”

Dan watches Taylor’s brow crease. She’s still holding the bottle in front him, and the straw still drifts across his closed lips, leaving phantom cuts where the plastic catches on his skin.

“I just told you,” she says. “Rawtenstall.”

“Oh,” says Dan. “Why?”

“Needed to pick up something at his parents, I think.”

Dan nods. He takes another quick sip of the vitamin water before Taylor sets it back on his nightstand. It hurts his throat to swallow and his ribs to breathe afterwards, but there’s something warm in his chest at having her here. As much as he hates it, being sick in front of Taylor is familiar, natural.

Sort of like nights spent playing Mario Kart with Phil.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Taylor dips her head. Her messy bun seems to flop forward with the movement. “I called Phil to ask how you were doing, and he said I could come over and see you if I wanted.” She reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t going to, but he asked if I could. He didn’t want to leave you alone for too long, in case you needed anything.”

Dan feels his cheeks burn. He tries to kick the blankets of his feet, only to hiss when it sends a shot of pain ricocheting along his spine. Taylor reaches down, pulls the blanket away for him and sets it on the side of the bed he doesn’t use. 

“Hot?” she asks. 

He nods, even though the heat lingers in his face. “Phil was supposed to work today,” he hears himself say.

Taylor shrugs. “Maybe he called in sick?”

Dan’s cheeks get warmer. “Is he sick?”

“No,” says Taylor. “But you are.”

\---

Phil gets home. Taylor goes back to uni.

Dan doesn’t get the chance to ask how she’s doing. She spent the afternoon writing a paper in the lounge as Dan had laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and willing his body to stop hurting as though it had ever listened before. Before leaving, she pops into his room to say goodbye with a wave and a quiet promise to come back soon.

Phil escorts her out. Dan can hear them from his bedroom, eyes pressed closed and hands tangled in his duvet.

And then his bedroom door cracks open again, and Phil’s poking his head in.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Dan groans, but his response is still: “Fine.”

He can picture the way concern draws at the corners of Phil’s mouth, and listens as the door clicks closed and Phil steps deeper into the room. “Dan,” he says. It reminds Dan of the tone his father used to use when he didn’t believe Dan’s claims that he was sick.

But Phil, he realizes, is using it because Dan’s claiming to be healthy.

“Sore,” he admits. “More than yesterday.”

“More?” asks Phil. It sounds like a breath. 

Dan nods, groaning at the press of his pillow to his neck. “Less dizzy. More pain.”

“Oh.”

Dan cracks his eyes open to see Phil leaning over the bed, dragging the bundled up duvet into his arms. He steps back and starts folding it, and Dan feels himself smile before letting his eyes fall closed again. After a second, the duvet is placed back on the bed next to him. 

“Do you need anything?” asks Phil. “Have you eaten?”

Dan shakes his head. “Hurts to eat,” he says. “My stomach hurts. Had some of your vitamin water though.”

“I got it for you.”

“I know,” says Dan. He swallows, offers a weak smile. “Thank you.”

\---

He crawls out of bed on the third day.

It’s already afternoon by the time his mind frees itself of its sleepy haze, and sun gleams too bright into the apartment. Dan presses a hand to the wall, ignoring the stab of pain in his wrist, as he makes his way from his bedroom to the lounge. His legs feel wobbly and his knees ache when he takes a step, and he collapses onto the sofa with a whine.

He counts the stutters of his ribcage as he sucks in a breath. One, two, three, four. Exhales with a groan as he presses a hand to his chest.

“Hey, breathe.”

Dan’s eyes snap open. He feels the pain of his gasp before he hears it. Phil’s sitting next to him, pressed to the armrest of the sofa, staring.

"Do you count?"

Dan nods, sucking in a breath at the stab of pain in his neck.

"To four?" says Phil.

Dan swallows, pressing his hand harder against his sternum to quell the pain of murmuring: "Yeah."

"Okay." Phil shifts a bit, tearing himself from the arm rest so he's facing Dan, all reassuring eyes and quiet smiles. "Breathe in for me, okay? One, two, three, four."

Dan's ribs spasm under his palm as he listens. His mouth is dry and his inhale scratches at his throat. He reaches up, presses two fingers to either side of his throat, where the skin of his neck burns at the touch. His head has fallen back against the sofa, and he closes his eyes, only to feel the drift of Phil's fingers coasting over his wrist.

"Does this help?" he asks. "Please, don't hurt yourself more."

His fingers close around Dan's wrist, squeezing a little too tight, making Dan's bones ache under the pressure. He whimpers, his fingernails raking over his ribs where he would usually clutch at fistfuls of his shirt. Phil's grip loosens, but his hand stays there, coasting over the jut of bone at Dan's wrist.

"Okay. Shit, am I hurting you?" says Phil.

Dan wishes he could shake his head, could explain that his body would hurt anyway and the warmth of Phil's hand is soothing even though it burns.

Phil doesn't seem to expect a response, though. His thumb coasts over Dan's skin again. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so bad at this counting thing. Let's try again, okay?"

He slips his arm out of Phil's grasp at that, ignoring the pain that bursts in his arm when he turns his hand again, presses his palm against Phil's.

Dan's fingers hurt, but he holds Phil's hand anyway, squeezes it as a silent  _ okay. _

Phil says: "One, two, three, four."

And Dan tries again.

\---

He gets his breathing back under control after a while. His grip on Phil's palm has loosened, his arm gone slack so they're hands rest in the valley between two sofa cushions. Dan cracks his eyes open to find Phil staring at him.

At his chest.

"Whatcha looking at, mate?" he says, but his voice cracks and it comes out as a mumble that doesn't sound nearly as teasing as he intended.

Phil's gaze snaps back to his. "Um," he says. "You- you're breathing okay again, right?"

Dan nods. His mind lingers on the idea of Phil needing to watch his chest, the spastic but steady rise and fall as he breathes. He wishes he could sit up straight, just say  _ I'm fine  _ and go about a normal day, but his body is already drained and he wants nothing more than to sink into the sofa and relax with Phil next to him.

Holding his hand.

Or not. Dan glances down at the tangle of their fingers and has to force himself to not let his breath catch at the sight. He stares for a second before letting his fingers slip from Phil's grasp, pressing his palm to his own thigh instead.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Phil's still smiling, though. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Did it help?"

"Holding your hand?"

It sounds dumb and a little too breathy, and Dan watches Phil's smile widen at the words, his slight nod of assent.

"Oh," says Dan. He looks down again, notices that Phil hasn't moved his hand since Dan let go. "Yeah. It helped."

\---

They do nothing all day.

Dan sits on the sofa. Phil brought him a warm washcloth again, and Dan pressed it to the parts of his rib cage that ached the most. There's a bag of frozen fruit resting on his knee, and his fluffy blanket draped over the back of the sofa so Dan's skin doesn't stick to the leather.

Phil thought of that, and Dan's heart is still warm with gratitude.

The makeshift curtain still hangs over the windows, and the TV screen remains black all afternoon. Phil entertains himself with his phone and quiet conversation punctuated by long moments when Dan's lungs and throat need to rest.

It's easy. Dan just wishes it felt more normal to be sat with no shirt in the lounge, covered in pain relief aids and accommodated by every part of the room.

Afternoon bleeds into evening. It's been a little while since their last mini-conversation, and Phil turns to Dan with uncertain eyes.

"You haven't eaten," says Phil.

Dan swallows. "Told you," he says. "It hurts too much."

"What if–" says Phil, but he shakes his head as he pauses for a moment. "I had an idea."

He doesn't say what it is. Dan watches as Phil lifts himself from the couch and rushes to the kitchen, almost tripping over clumsy steps. He opens one of the cabinets, and pulls out a blender, setting it on the counter. He goes to the fridge and draws bags of frozen fruit from the freezer.

Dan realizes, with all the ingredients laid out on the breakfast bar, what Phil's planning.

"Smoothies?"

Phil's smile is slight, a little unsure. "I thought they might be easier to swallow."

Dan had thought that once, too, but his mother hadn't appreciated the collection of frozen fruit in their freezer or the noise of a blender. He blinks against the memories, tries not to remember that their sofa back at home was just a little more comfortable than this one.

"Yeah," says Dan. "It's easier."

So Phil makes him a smoothie. No complaints, no questions. He warns Dan about the noise every time he turns on the blender as he follows a recipe on his phone, and brings Dan his drink with nothing but a smile.

"I hope it's okay," says Phil.

Dan doesn't say:  _ You're the first person who has ever taken care of me without making me feel bad about it. _

He takes a sip. The cold soothes the inflammation of his throat, numbing it enough for him to swallow without agony. Phil stares at him the entire time, and Dan smiles back at him once the sweet taste of strawberries has faded from his mouth.

"It's good," he promises. "Thank you."

Phil shakes his head, dropping back onto the sofa. "I'm just glad you can eat something," he says. "I was worried about you."

Dan takes another sip of his smoothie to keep himself from contemplating how sincere Phil sounds. Neither of them says another word until Dan's glass is half empty and Phil has gotten himself pieces of leftover pizza to eat for dinner.

"Phil?"

"Yeah?"

Dan glances at the kitchen. The cabinet where the blender had been is still open. So is the microwave, and the drawer Phil had gotten measuring cups from.

"Since when do we have a blender?"

When Dan looks back at Phil, his cheeks have gone pink and he's staring at the pizza on his plate.

"We don't," Phil answers. "I, uh, went out to Rawtenstall to borrow my mum's."

Dan's chest floods with warmth. He takes another sip of his smoothie to quell it, to quiet the racing thoughts telling him how much effort Phil went through just so Dan could eat.

To ignore the voices in his head reminding him that his flat mate shouldn't need to go through so much effort to feed him.

"Oh," Dan mumbles around his straw. "Well, thank you."

Phil smiles. "You don't need to thank me."

Dan swallows back an explanation of why, yes, he does need to thank Phil because no one has ever gone through so much effort to help him.


	11. Chapter 11

Phil’s still home on Thursday.

Dan stumbles out of his bedroom, a little steadier, breathing easier than he was yesterday, and Phil’s sitting at the breakfast bar. His laptop is open in front of him, leg bouncing until his knee hits the counter. Dan winces, feeling the phantom ache of it in his own knee as he watches Phil lean down to smooth a hand over his bright yellow pyjama pants.

He wants to ask, voice his questions as to why Phil’s been home all week. Since Dan moved in, Phil’s hours have been a predictable nine to five, Monday to Friday. 

But it’s Thursday. And Dan’s limping his way to the sofa. And Phil’s sitting in their kitchen in his pyjamas.

Dan doesn’t ask. He groans, because his breath caught in his chest and the pressure against his ribs aches. Phil turns around, eyes wide, mouth twisted into a frown. 

“You okay?”

Dan nods. His fingers curl against the wall he’s been using for support as he presses forward, trips over his feet as he makes his way to the sofa. The curtain is still drawn over the windows. Dan wonders if Phil misses the brilliance of afternoon sunlight shining in his home. He blinks the thought away, letting his head fall back against the cushions.

He listens to Phil close his laptop, the drag of the barstool against the floor. 

“How are you feeling today?” asks Phil.

Dan hums. “Little better,” he says. “Still pretty shit.”

“Do you want a smoothie?”

He hums again, not bothering with words because he can already hear Phil walking around, opening cabinets and grabbing things from the fridge. There’s a crinkle of plastic and a whir of the blender, and Dan swallows against the bubble of guilt keeping him from enjoying being taken care of.

When Phil comes into the living room, he has a glass with a silly straw in one hand, and an actual ice pack in the other. Dan stares at it, brows furrowed, until Phil lets out a chuckle that sounds a little too high-pitched. 

“I went shopping this morning,” he says. Dan looks up to see that his cheeks have gone pink. “I thought that maybe an actual ice pack and heating pad would be more helpful than frozen peas and a washcloth. But, I mean, if you’d rather– I can go get the peas if you want. Oh, and I got you another blanket, but you need to tell me if its soft–”

Dan reaches forward, grabs the ice pack from Phil’s hand, and presses it to the side of his neck that’s felt swollen since he woke up. A smile twitches at the corner of Phil’s mouth, and Dan finds himself smiling back.

He takes the smoothie, too, sipping at it slowly. Phil doesn’t return to his laptop in the kitchen, and instead settles onto the sofa next to Dan, in the same spaces they occupied yesterday. Close and easy, and Dan finds he appreciates the companionship, the warm way Phil makes him feel a little more okay.

“Does your neck hurt a lot usually?” asks Phil, when Dan’s glass is mostly empty and they’ve been sitting in silence for a few long minutes.

Dan reaches up, switching the ice pack from the left side of his neck to the right. “Do you really want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” says Phil. 

His eyes are so wide, so blue, so sincere, that Dan almost believes he just wants to know. That Phil could actually just care about all the ways Dan’s body is broken.

“Oh,” he says, looking away because Phil’s  _ smiling  _ and Dan doesn’t know how to say this to someone who actually cares. “Yeah, it’s usually pretty sore.”

“Sore how?” asks Phil, all soft and kind and caring. “You don’t– I just want to know how you’re feeling.”

He’s said that before. Dan’s mind reminds him of it, vivid and bright and beautiful. Phil in his button up instead of pyjamas, with a frown to replace his smile, asking how Dan felt instead of what other people, actual authorities on health, had to say. Tears burn behind his eyes. Dan stares at his own lap so Phil doesn’t see.

“A few ways,” he whispers. “The back of it is super sensitive to touch. And the sides, like where my throat is, get swollen a lot. Makes it hard to swallow. It’s weak, hard to hold my head up sometimes.”

“Oh,” says Phil. “That must suck.”

Dan’s responding laugh rumbles in his chest, hurts his ribs. “Yeah, it does.”

They don’t say another word for a few moments. Dan’s smoothie’s gone lukewarm, but he sips at the rest of it, staring into the disappearing swirls of yellow. It tastes like mango today. When he glances over at Phil, it’s to find him still staring at Dan.

“Sorry,” he hears himself say. “I didn’t mean to– You didn’t need to know all that.”

But Phil shakes his head, reaches over to press a warm palm to the bend of Dan’s knee. “No, I wanted to know,” he says, still smiling in that way that makes Dan’s whole body buzz with a foreign sense of ease. “Can we talk about it more? Not now but sometime. I want to know your … boundaries.”

He’s said that word before, too. And Dan’s mind, as achy and annoying as it is, flashes with dark nights and evening glows and careful touches and genuine consideration and–

“How are you like this?”

Dan’s cheeks go red the moment he says it, burning so much he contemplates pressing the ice pack to his face and hiding his flush behind it. 

“Are other people not?” asks Phil.

Dan almost laughs at the absurdity of the idea of other people caring about his problems the way Phil does.

“No,” he says. “They’re not.”

\---

They do nothing again on Thursday.

And again on Friday.

The new blanket Phil got him is soft enough, and stays draped over the sofa so Dan doesn’t need to carry his back and forth. The heating pad soothes the tense muscles of his back. The ice pack feels more comfortable pressed to the aching parts of his body than the frozen veggies did.

Dan can still only drink smoothies. The TV stays off because his head aches when it’s on. The apartment is still darkened by the curtain Taylor had put up. 

Phil stays home on Friday. His pyjamas are blue and Star Wars themed, and he spend most of the day with his fringe pushed back over his forehead. Dan almost asks, again, why he’s home midday during the week. But he curls up in his blanket instead, an ice back resting his nape and a smile on his face as he watches the dimmed screen of Phil’s laptop.

He goes to bed on Friday night with more sleep aids in his system, his throat still numb from the evening smoothie Phil made for him, and actually falls asleep for once.

\---

Dan’s feeling a little better on Saturday.

He can walk from his bedroom to the lounge without needing to lean on a wall for support. The blare of the blender doesn’t send splices of agony lancing through his mind. Drawing their makeshift curtain just a bit allows sunlight to warm his skin without burning it, without making his head ache.

For breakfast, he has half a smoothie and a scrambled egg, and pride gleams so beautifully in Phil’s eyes that Dan’s usual protest at being patronized never comes.

They end up settled on the sofa again. The cushions have already started to shape to Dan’s spine, and Phil still tends to press himself to the arm rest as though he’s trying to occupy the least space possible. Dan’s phone sits on his knees and Phil holds his in his hand, and they spend most of the morning doing nothing.

Again.

“Being sick is so boring.”

Phil looks up from his phone. The curtain is open again today, but only halfway, so it casts a sharp line of contrast against Phil’s cheek. It makes his pale skin glow in the sunlight, his one eye look a deeper, softer blue in the shadows. Dan swallows, trying not to feel bad when Phil’s lips draw into a frown.

“Do you want to do something?”

Dan laughs, a bitter rumble that barely passes through his lips. “I can’t,” he says. “That’s how this works.”

“Right,” says Phil. “Can you tell me about it?”

It’s soft, a little shy, and Phil dips his head until his fringe falls over his eyes. Dan knows he’s the one who needs a special blanket so his skin can handle touch, the one who’s too sick to leave the house or play video games or eat normal food, but he still wants to reach out and smooth a palm over the tense line of Phil’s shoulders.

With anyone else, he would shrug, mumbling a lie. Would wrap his blanket around his shoulders and curl his body into a ball, pretending that the sensitive nerves in his chest didn’t burn at the touch. 

He does that anyway, drawing his knees onto the sofa so he can hug them close and wrap the grey flannel of his blanket around his body. He falls forward so his cheek rests on his kneecaps, the hard press of bone on bone making pain flare in his face. 

“What do you want to know?”

Phil shrugs. “Just, like, um, what happens?” He laughs, low and sad, and Dan frowns. “Sorry. I know that’s really vague.”

“It’s okay,” says Dan, even though, if Phil was anybody else, there would be a bitter twist of anger in his gut. “I get tired, and it hurts a lot,”

“Where?”

Dan swallows. “Every where.”

Phil’s eyes go wide. His voice cracks when he speaks: “When?”

“All the time,” says Dan, chest tight, tears stinging behind his eyes. 

He watches Phil read up, swipe his fringe to the side. The half of his face alight with sunshine looks too pale. His eyes are too blue, and gleam with what Dan pretends isn’t a tear. 

“For how long?”

Dan groans at that. His back hurts from being hunched forward and it’s growing too warm in his little blanket wrap. A tear falls, starts to roll down his cheek, and he turns his face to wipe it against his knee. Phil’s still staring at him, Dan can feel it prickling at his skin. He doesn’t look back at Phil, even though the press of his knees to his face feels like a jab to the bridge of his nose.

“Five years,” he mumbles.

It’s muffled by the blanket, but Dan knows Phil hears it from the hitch in his breath. “That doesn’t even–”

“Make sense?” says Dan. “I know.”

He can barely breathe now, his chest hurts so much. His knees are damp where tears have soaked through his blanket, left smears across his cheeks. The sofa cushion dips beneath him, but Dan can’t bring himself to look up and see how Phil’s shifted. 

“It makes sense,” says Phil. “I just– It sounds like so much. My brain can’t understand.”

“Neither can mine.”

Phil falls so quiet Dan can hear the hitch of his own breath as he tries not to cry. His joints feel locked now, curled up in a ball and never ready to come back out. His eyes burn even more at the flex of his ankles and tightness in his elbows and the ache in every rung of his spine.

“Dan?” whispers Phil.

“Yeah?”

“Can I–”

His hand drifts over Dan’s spine, settles just below the jut of his shoulder blades. A little higher, Dan thinks, and Phil would be touching the points that make him want to cry out in pain. But like this, a breath shudders in his chest, and he nods his head against the tight press of his knees to his face.

Phil’s hand is warm,  _ so warm.  _ A gentle pressure against Dan’s spine that has him wanting to lean in, press himself to Phil’s side and cry for all the months he’s spent pretending to be okay. 

A sob rips through his chest. Phil goes to pull away, but Dan shakes his head against his knees. He fumbles with the blanket until his hand is free to reach out, find the fabric of Phil’s shirt and grip it between his fingers. Phil’s hand runs along the hunched curve of Dan’s spine, and Dan tugs him closer.

There’s only a second of hesitation before Phil’s shifting until there’s barely any space between them, hand drifting below Dan’s shoulder blades until his arm is draped over Dan’s back and drawing him in.

“Hey,” he’s mumbling, voice hushed, drowning in Dan’s sobs. “Hey, Dan, come here. You’re okay. I– I don’t know what to say but– I’m here. You’re okay.”

Dan chokes on a sob. Phil’s other hand comes up, coasts through Dan’s hair.

“Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

Dan nods, presses himself into Phil’s side as another cry breaks through his chest. 

Phil holds him tight and careful and gentle and Dan’s breathing starts to slow after long minutes. His fingers give out, falling away from Phil’s shirt. Tears stop coming, leaving his eyes swollen and burning, and him barely able to open them. 

He realizes, again, that he’s not wearing a shirt. And that he’s pressed his chest to Phil’s side and his head to Phil’s neck and Phil is sitting there, breathing warm and steady against the top of Dan’s head.

“Dan?”

His chest aches, tight and still shuddering with cries. “Yeah?”

Phil runs his fingers through Dan’s hair again, keeps holding him tight. “You’re amazing.”

Dan’s eyes slam closed. One last tear rolls down his cheek.

No one, in six years of Dan being sick, has ever responded with  _ that. _

\---

Dan stays nestled against Phil’s side. 

He’s not entirely sure how it happened. One moment he’s letting his tears soak into the fabric of Phil’s pyjama shirt, and the next he’s sitting there with his head resting on Phil’s shoulder and Phil’s arm still draped around his back. The touch should hurt, Dan thinks. It  _ does  _ hurt.

But Phil asks, “Is this okay?”, and he sounds like he doesn’t want to move away, like he doesn’t care that his collar’s still damp and Dan’s trapped him on the sofa. 

And even though a dull ache erupts where Phil’s body is pressed against Dan’s side, Dan nods.

So they stay that way. Phil’s fingers drift between Dan’s shoulder and the back of his head, careful not to touch his sensitive nape. Dan tries to pace his breathing to the steady, painless rise and fall of Phil’s chest. The TV’s still off. Phil doesn’t pick up his phone. They sit there, silent and pressed together, until Dan notices the sun has started to lower in the sky.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Phil’s fingers are in his hair again, tracing patterns against the back of Dan’s head. 

“For what?” says Phil.

Dan tries to lift his head, but his neck feels weak and his body can’t draw away from the warmth of Phil’s body. 

“Making you spend today like this,” he says, turning to muffle the words against Phil’s shoulder. “For being useless all week.”

Phil’s arm tenses, fingers curling against Dan’s skull. “You’re not useless,” says Phil, his voice sharp. “You’re not– Being sick doesn’t make you useless, Dan.”

Something bitter and far too sweet curls at Dan’s heart, a small smile drawing at this cheeks. That's another thing that no one's ever bothered to say, that no one's ever  _ thought. _

Phil’s fingers are back to tracing patterns in his hair, and it's so easy to just sit there and sink into the calming pressure. Sleep draws at the back of his mind, has his eyes falling closed. The sun is still fairly high in the sky, still paints the city in daytime blue, but crying and confessions and  _ cuddles  _ leech the energy from his bones as much as his last day at work did.

He reaches up, tentatively, to press a palm to Phil's chest, and curls a little deeper into Phil's touch. His heartbeat under Dan's hand is as steady as his breathing.

Dan wonders if it's as easy for Phil as it is for him, to just exist like this.

His eyes stay closed. The burn of tears has lingered far too long, and dissipates without the brightness of life to make it worse. His bones are so heavy he's not sure he could pull away if he tried.

With a stuttered breath, Dan realizes how easy it would be to fall asleep like this, with Phil's arm around him, holding him close.

"Phil?"

"Yeah?"

Dan swallows. His sleepy mind conjures memories like dreams, of the night Dan had his feet on Phil's lap, of a whole week of being use–  _ not  _ useless with Phil just  _ there _ .

"Why were you home this week?" asks Dan, because it's been lingering at the back of his mind since Tuesday, because Taylor's words still ricochet in his chest like warm possibilities weighted with implication.

Phil's fingers pause in Dan's hair. "I didn't want you to be alone," he says. "You could barely walk on Monday and I– you needed someone."

"So you weren't supposed to be off?"

Phil's chest rumbles under Dan's palm as he laughs. "No," he says. "But I'm glad I called in."

Dan's brains going more hazy. Phil's hand is so warm against the back of his head. His presence so stupidly calming.

"Why?" he hears himself say.

Phil turns his head. Dan can feel his smile against his crown.

"You needed someone."

Maybe it's his tired brain, but Dan's pretty sure Phil's not talking about needing someone to help him walk and bring his ice packs and make him smoothies.

And he's pretty sure Phil's right.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fibromylagia awareness day yesterday so I wanted to take a moment to thank all the people who have taken time to read this story. If you don't have fibro, I hope it's given you, to whatever extent, a better understanding of the illness. Thank you all for making me feel valid and visible for the first time in 6 years. I love you guys. (also come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!)


	12. Chapter 12

Dan’s chest doesn’t feel like it wants to collapse when he wakes up Sunday morning, and though his whole body is sore from being pressed into the mattress, he supposes that it’s some improvement. The blanket is tangled around his legs and his hair is pressed to his forehead, matted and unwashed. He rolls onto his back, running his fingers through it, feeling the grease on his hand.

“Fucking hell.”

He reaches for his phone, ignoring how oil smears across the screen when he unlocks it and opens his texts.

_ Taylor: how are you doing? _

Dan smiles, rolling onto his side so he can press his phone to his chest and let the mattress support his arms. 

_ Dan: my roommate is crazy _

_ Taylor: not what I expected but okay _

_ Taylor: did he try to kill you? _

He rolls his eyes, mind drifting to wonder if Phil’s up, sitting in the lounge and going about his life. If he’s waiting for Dan to drag himself out of his bedroom and spend another day doing nothing on the sofa. If there’s a twist of anxiety at the idea, after every that happened yesterday, like there is in Dan’s stomach.

_ Dan: the exact opposite actually _

_ Taylor: he tried to have sex with you ??? _

His cheeks flush, the memory of Phil’s hand on his back, curled around his shoulder, holding him close.

_ Dan: what _

_ Dan: no _

_ Dan: if anything about this week made him want to have sex with me he’s actually crazy _

_ Taylor: you do tend to stay mostly naked when sick _

He tries not to think about it, how he’s spent most of the week in nothing but pants. How Phil’s touched his bare skin, how he’d stared at Dan’s chest, watching him breathe. 

_ Dan: shut up _

_ Dan: I’m serious _

_ Taylor: okay fine what did phil do _

_ Dan: he called in sick all week _

_ Taylor: didn’t we already know this _

_ Taylor: i stg we already had this conversation _

_ Dan: no now I know know _

_ Taylor: you sure you’re feeling okay today? _

He frowns, because sometimes Taylor really is joking, but sometimes there’s guilt and concern gleaming behind her eyes when she says things like that. And they’re not sitting in the darkness of Dan’s uni dorm anymore, not staring at each other and wallowing in different but mutual despair.

_ Dan: i’m doing fine _

_ Dan: we talked yesterday and he said he was glad he called in _

_ Dan: taylor _

_ Taylor: dan _

_ Dan: fuck off _

_ Dan: normal people don’t do that _

_ Taylor: don’t do what _

Dan bites his lip. The little bubble is already there to tell him Taylor’s typing and his chest tightens at the sight. 

_ Taylor: don’t call in sick to take care of a friend _

_ Taylor: or don’t care enough to do it for you _

\---

Phil’s sitting the lounge again when Dan drags himself out of his room. Today’s pyjama pants are Star Wars themed, paired with a green hoodie from York University. Dan swallows at the sight, ignoring the twist of guilt in his stomach. 

He should call his mum, but the idea of telling her what happened has terror settling in his gut.

“How are you feeling today?” asks Phil.

Dan shrugs. His fingers are a little shaky and his chest is tight, and he can’t remember if it felt this bad before he left his bedroom. Phil’s sitting there with his head tilted back against the sofa, an easy smile on his face and his fringe half pushed up into a messy quiff, and all Dan can think about is the press of their sides together and the drape of Phil’s arm over his shoulders.

“A little better every day,” he mumbles. 

His knees are still weak and he’s still not wearing a shirt, though he did manage to pull on a pair of joggers with minimal pain. Taylor’s words flash in his mind in taunting grey text bubbles, and he knows he shouldn’t let it bother him, but Phil’s looking at him and he can’t not remember how wide his eyes get when he’s staring at Dan in worry.

He swallows the thought away. “I need to eat so I can shower.”

“Okay,” says Phil, nodding his head and pushing himself off the sofa before Dan’s even taken another step into the lounge. “Are you, you know, okay? To shower?”

Dan’s stomach twists, because he doesn’t know. Showering has been an ordeal for as long as he’s been sick, marked with dizziness and pain and exhaustion so bad he’d often find himself lying on the bathroom floor, waiting for his blood pressure to return just enough for him to stand. His arms feel too weak to lift over his head and his mind feels like it may spin at the slightest bit of heat and he’s sure his back is still too sensitive to handle the beating of droplets against his skin.

“I have to,” he answers. 

“Have to?”

Dan swallows, reaching back to press against the wall and push himself deeper into the lounge. He reaches the sofa, and only feels the subtle swell of guilt that he’s going to sit while Phil cooks for him before settling onto his blanket. When he turns to glance into the kitchen, Phil’s leaning back against the counter, brows furrowed and a bowl of egg in his hands.

“I, uh, work tomorrow,” says Dan.

Phil almost drops the bowl. “You what?”

“I have a job I need to show up to,” he says. “Apparently Taylor explained why I’d need a week off but I’m scheduled for tomorrow.”

Phil just stares, long enough to have Dan squirming. He hisses at the movement of fabric against his skin, and it’s enough to have Phil setting the bowl down on the counter, rushing into the living room with clumsy steps. 

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, so heavy and sincere and  _ worried  _ that Dan’s heart clenches. “You’re going to be in pain again and I–”

“I’m always in pain, Phil.”

He realizes a moment too late that it might be too much. Phil’s face falls, his eyes darting over Dan’s body. A few days ago, there was a heating pad under his back and an ice pack on whichever joint needed it the most and Dan wishes Phil could see that struggling with sunlight and fabric is an okay day. He can walk and eat and talk and  _ breathe.  _

Wishes that saying as much wouldn’t make Phil look even more shattered than he already does. 

Dan exhales slowly, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m used to it. My life can’t just stop because sometimes I—”

“End up in so much pain you can’t move?” 

Dan gasps, his chest going so tight he can’t make himself exhale. He wants to draw his feet onto the sofa, curl himself into a ball again and pretend Phil still thinks his problems stop at inconvenient fatigue. To ignore the voices that swirl in his mind, echoing constant reminders that he’s supposed to be  _ fine  _ while every part of his body screams in agony.

Instead, he presses a hand to his sternum, digging the heel of his palm against the bone. 

Phil’s still staring, eyes wide. He glances down, watches Dan’s hand. “Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry. You need to breathe, okay?”

Dan nods, glancing down. His stomach is drawn beneath his ribs, skin pulling taut over the bones. Phil reaches over, his hand closing around Dan’s.

“On three, okay?”

He nods again, letting his eyes fall closed.

Phil squeezes his hand. “One, two, three.”

Dan feels the jerk of his chest when he exhales, the shudder when he immediately gasps in pain. Phil lets go of his hand, and Dan’s falls to rest on his lap, only for Phil’s to press to his chest instead. Dan eye’s snap open at the feeling, still looking down at where Phil’s fingers are splayed over his ribs, rubbing little circles against Dan’s skin.

“Am I hurting you?” whispers Phil.

“I– No.”

“Okay.”

His fingers rub another circle against Dan’s skin, warm and soothing and Dan knows he’s staring but Phil’s practically massaging his chest to help him.

“On three again, okay?” says Phil. “One, two, three.”

Dan exhales, closing his eyes again to keep tears from welling. He wonders if Phil can feel the strain of his chest muscles, the way they buckle when he breathes, the racing beat of his heart beneath his ribs. 

“Better?” asks Phil.

Dan nods. He can wait a moment this time, fight the desperate burn in lungs to inhale more slowly and save himself the pain of another gasp.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” says Phil. He’s still rubbing circles against Dan’s skin. “I’m just worried.”

Dan doesn’t wait for the count of three, his chest deflating at the crack in Phil’s voice. He opens his eyes and brings his hand back up, resting it over Phil’s.

“I know,” he says. “But I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Phil’s eyes widen. It probably doesn’t look like nothing. It doesn’t feel like nothing, sitting there, struggling to breath because of a gasp. But Phil doesn’t protest and Dan’s mind is too scattered to explain all the reasons it  _ is  _ nothing, all the experts who have told him as much, all the days spent wishing things were different.

He offers a half hearted smile. Phil’s thumb sweeps across the ridge of his ribs.

They don’t talk about it more.

\---

Phil cooks. Dan eats his eggs, swallowing back whimpers with every bite. They don’t talk.

Dan notices how Phil keeps looking at him, hesitant little glances that make Dan’s insides twist. He wants to apologize, erase the worry where it creases Phil’s brow, but he’s sure Phil would only get more upset if Dan tried to apologize for his body’s inability to handle existing.

So he sits there, eats, and then quietly excuses himself to go shower.

Dan brings clothes with him, tucking a shirt over his arm even though he’s not sure his chest could handle it. His imagination reminds him of how scratchy and coarse his work shirt is, how the fabric feels against his skin, but he pushes the thought away. 

He sits down on the toilet to pull off his joggers and pants, shivering at the rush of cold air. His hands shake when he turns on the water, setting it to a temperature he hopes will be okay.

When he steps in, the water feels like pellets against his skin, too cold and stinging where they hit. Dan squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the trails of ice cold pain running down his spine and soaking into his hair, and he reaches back to adjust the temperature. 

It burns. But there’s already tears rolling down his cheeks, leaking into the rush of the shower. He crosses his arms over his chest, and tries to stabilize the weakness there before his breathing gives out again. Nerves cut paths of pain across his back, spread like wildfire across his torso, and his voice cracks on a sob. 

Dan tries to lift his arms to shampoo his hair, but pain cramps in his biceps and his shoulders grow weak, so he lets his hands fall and watches the shower wash unused soap away. The heat already has his head spinning, dizziness leeching across his scalp and making his vision go spotty.

He lasts a minute before his knees give out and he’s reaching out, flattening a palm against the shower wall as he falls. His vision goes black for a second, and Dan presses his face to the valley between his knees so he can pretend his blood pressure isn’t falling. 

The soap is too high and Dan can’t drag himself back to his feet. Water beats against his skin. His chest buckles when he tries to breathe.

Dan sits there, crying, hoping water alone will be enough to make him feel human again.

\---

He drags himself out of the shower without standing, hands clenched tight around the edge of the tub, fingers blanching under the pressure. Muscles in his back spasm and his legs can barely lift enough to crawl over it, and he ends up collapsing onto the bath mat the moment his weight sinks over the ledge.

His eyes are squeezed shut, but tears still leak from the corners. His vision is still spotty. His hands shake when he tries to snag the towel from its hook on the wall, so weak that the cloth falls from his hand in a second. The bathroom is cold, making phantom bruises burst across his body even though his shoulders and stomach are still bright red and burning.

Dan doesn’t stand. He lays there, muscles spasming and chest buckling with every breath, and stares at the ceiling until he can actually see again.

It must take a while, because there’s a knock on the door. 

“Dan? Are you okay?”

He swallows, tilts his head back so he can stare at the doorknob. All he’d need to do is reach up and snag the handle to unlock it. But he’s lying there, naked, still dirty from the week. His dick is resting against his thigh and he can feel the pattern of the mat pressing against his ass, and he feels his cheeks flush at the thought. 

There’s another knock. “Dan?”

He swallows, reaches to the side and snags his towel between his fingers, dragging it over. The fabric isn’t soft, and hurts when he drapes it over his lap.

And then he reaches up to unlock the door. 

The click echos through the room. Phil must hear it from the other side because the door’s cracking open in a second. 

“Dan?” 

He steps inside, already staring at where Dan is lying on the floor. 

“Oh my god,” breathes Phil. “Are you okay?”

“‘M dizzy,” Dan mumbles. “Hurts. Showers hurt.”

Phil frowns. He looks like he wants to say  _ you can’t even wear a shirt of course it hurts _ , but he just turns away from Dan and reaches into the cabinet under the sink. When he stands again, he’s holding an old looking blue towel between his hands.

“It’s softer,” he says. “I’ll go get you crisps and you can–” He motions vaguely to the white towel draped across Dan’s hips, cheeks going pink as he darts out of the room.

Dan makes quick work of switching the towels, sighing in relief as the worn blue fabric rests softly against his skin. Phil knocks again when he returns, and crouches down to hand Dan the bowl he brought with him. 

“Do you want to sit up?” asks Phil.

Dan nods, and Phil reaches for him carefully. His hands hook under Dan’s arms, draw him upright slowly. He grabs the white towel, bunches it up and sets it on the edge of the tub. He helps Dan lean back, frowning when Dan hisses in pain at the press of cold porcelain to his shoulder blades. His head falls back, towel cushioning the press of his skull.

Phil sits next to him, legs drawn up and arms crossed over bent knees.

“I’m fine,” Dan croaks.

Phil’s responding laugh is bitter. “I’m not blind, you know,” he says. “At least, with my glasses I’m not.”

He cracks a smile, pained and tense. His heart is racing, beating itself against his ribs and he can feel the weight of every breath settling heavily on his insides. Phil sets the bowl of crisps on his thighs, and Dan’s fingers shake when he reaches for one, but doesn’t bring it to his mouth.

“Too sore to eat?” says Phil, and there’s no accusation there but–

“I’m still going to work tomorrow.”

Phil frowns, brows furrowing. “Dan,” he whispers, but no words follow. They’re not necessary, when his voice is so low and somber, when he’s staring at Dan like he just announced that he’s dying.

“I can’t lose this job,” says Dan, letting his eyes fall closed. 

“Why? It’s hurting you.”

His exhale shudders, lips drawing into a frown. Dan wants to reach out, curl his fingers into Phil’s palm. Touch, warm and gentle and soothing, is more grounding than the cold tub pressed to his back, the towel draped over his lap. He cracks his eyes open, vision gone hazy again, still dotted in black, but clear enough to see the way worry creases Phil’s features.

“I need to pay rent. Need to try,” answers Dan. “Don’t wanna go back to Wokingham.”

Words stay tight in his chest, but Dan doesn’t say  _ my parents don’t get it  _ or  _ my dad still thinks I’m faking to be lazy.  _ And he definitely doesn’t say  _ I’ve never met anyone who treats me like you do and don’t want to lose it.  _

Phil reaches for him, though. His hand lands on Dan’s knee and smooths over bare skin there, before falling into the space between them so their fingers brush together.

“I’m not going to kick you out because you’re sick.”

He says it like it’s not a burden, not a problem, like he’d never even considered the idea and Dan’s heart clenches. He reaches out, rests his hand over Phil’s so his fingers can curl into Phil’s palm.

“You have to pay rent,” says Dan.

Phil shrugs. “I’ll figure it out, get help if I need to,” he says. “I’m not going to kick you out. You’re my friend and you’re sick and– I care about you, okay? I’m not going kick you out.”

Dan almost says:  _ nobody’s cared about me this much before _ , but he swallows it back. “It’s been less than a month,” he says instead.

“So?” says Phil. 

If his eyes didn’t hurt, Dan would roll them. Because it should be obvious, why this is a terrible idea. It’s been obvious to everyone before Phil, the uselessness Dan carries with him, the worthlessness of a body so broken. He almost says that, too, mind hazy and echoing a constant strain of  _ you can’t just leech of us your whole life, Daniel. _

“I’m gonna try,” he mumbles. “I need to at least try.”

Phil smiles then, so soft Dan wants to reach out and hold onto the way blue eyes gleam with understanding, with caring.

“Okay,” says Phil. “But if it doesn’t work out, you still have a home here, okay?”

Head still spinning, hands shaking so much his crisp falls from his fingers, Dan manages to smile back. His mind lingers dumbly on the word  _ home _ until Phil reaches into the bowl and brings a crisp to his mouth for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys. you may have noticed I only updated once this week. my new job has taken a toll on my own health situation, so until further notice I'll be updating only on Sundays (and may miss some of those, in which case I'll try to update during the week). I hope you guys understand and know that my dedication to this story is unwavering. if you have any questions or want to say hi, come find me on tumblr [ @huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	13. Chapter 13

Dan hates being alone.

He realizes it suddenly, with a painful twist in his gut and clench in his chest. Phil’s gone back to work and Dan’s leaning against the hallway wall, staring at the empty sofa. His grey blanket is still draped over the back of it, the heating pad Phil had gotten him resting by one of the armrests. But his mind conjures image of colourful pyjamas and messy morning hair and he has to swallow against the well of sadness it brings.

Arm aching, he pushes himself off the wall and limps forward to the spot he’s occupied for a week. Illness lingers on his skin. The blanket, when he settles against it, reeks of body odour. Dan wonders how Phil’s dealt with an it, the smell, the silence, the darkness.

“He’s too good,” he huffs to an empty room filled with strangely good memories.

His eyes fall closed, head tilting back against the sofa. His shift isn’t for another few hours, enough time erase the tendrils of restless sleep from his mind, the stiffness of morning from his joints.

Dan sits there for a while, until the prickling at the back of his mind grows too loud. He blinks his eyes open, ignoring the spots of black that burst in his peripheral. The silence is too still, too heavy on his mind. He’s grown too used to the quiet taps of Phil’s fingers against his phone screen, to whispered conversations about nothing just to drag his mind away from it’s incessant focus on pain.

The lack of distraction is acute, a worsened stab between his ribs, increased burning over his arms. If Phil were here, he’d be murmuring about whatever stupid app he’d downloaded that morning.

But he’s not.

And Dan’s left to focus on the cramps in his chest, the stinging pressure around his legs, the painful drag of fabric over his bare skin. He feels the burn of tears before they well, blinks them away before they can. It’s stupid, he thinks, to be so dependent after so little time.

When he was younger, he’d curl up on the sofa and watch cooking and home reno shows because they were mindless and easy and Dan’s mum wouldn’t accuse him of staying home to watch _cartoons._ But some days, his father would force him to stay in his bedroom, mumbling and punishing bad behaviour, and Dan would spend his time staring at the ceiling until tears blurred the ceiling fan overhead.

He shoves himself off the sofa so quickly his elbow crack and ankles wobble. His weight almost topples forward, a gasp trapped in his chest.

If Phil were here, he’d be standing next to Dan, whispering quiet support.

“One, two, three, four,” Dan says to himself.

He drags himself to the kitchen. Time must have passed, but his phone is on the sofa and his legs ache too much to walk back and forth. His hands flatten against the counter, holding him upright. Dan waits until his body feels steady before looking up again, gaze flicking to the fridge.

There’s a post note stuck to it. Dan stumbles forward, plucking it between his fingers.

_I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay to swallow so I made you a smoothie. Have a good shift and call me if you need anything. - Phil_

There’s a smiley face in the corner, wedged between words Phil barely had enough room for. Dan stares at it, a little crooked, eyes uneven,

Dan feels like his own face might mirror it, as he sticks the note to the countertop and reaches into the fridge to get the smoothie Phil made for him.

It’s mango-pineapple flavoured. Dan wonders if Phil noticed it’s his favourite.

\---

He lasts an hour.

His boss had only scheduled him for four, but a quarter into his shift Dan’s hands are shaking, his vision swimming in blurry swirls. His one hand grips at the edge of the counter, the other pressing buttons on the register, desperately hoping they’re the right ones.

He wonders if the customer notices the sweat building on his brow. If they can tell he hasn’t properly showered for a week, or that standing is growing painful enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“Have a good day,” Dan chokes, handing over a bag of bread and … something else. He hears his own voice crack, watching the small smile that curls at the customer’s lips as she turns and walks away.

Dan blinks. Someone’s coming up to stand beside him, reaching under the counter and setting the _closed: please use next register_ sign in place. It takes him a second to realize it’s Sue.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“No you’re not,” says Sue. “I’m not having you faint on my watch again, Dan.”

He swallows. Without the distraction of customers, his mind can focus on the pressure on his hips, the weight heavy on his shoulders. He wants to fold inwards, collapse onto himself until every weakened part of his body supports another.

“Dan?”

Another blink. His knees wobble. Dan reaches out and flattens a palm against the counter so he doesn’t collapse.

Sue offers a soft smile. He remembers his first interview, lying about how long he could stand, how much he could lift. Wearing jeans that scraped his thighs and a button down that made his neck tingle where the collar touched his skin, he’d smiled against the ache in his back.

His eyes had still burned then, a remnant of long months forcing himself to read uni textbooks until he couldn’t keep them open any longer.

She rests a hand on his shoulder, gentle and tentative. “Come with me, to my office, okay?”

Dan nods. He follows her through the store, ignoring the lingering gaze of his coworkers. The Tesco polo feels too tight around his shoulders and throat. Sue’s walking slower than she usually does, and Dan tries to pretend it isn’t for his benefit. That she doesn’t know how weak his body is.

The office is full of paperwork and uniforms, and Dan gaze flits across all of it, blurry and out of focus.

“What’s up?” she asks, casual and kind.

Dan shrugs.

“Are you still sick?”

 _I’m always sick,_ he wants to say. But he shrugs again.

“Dan.” It’s a sigh this time. “If you need accomodations or less hours, we can work with you, you know? But you have too tell me what you need.”

His eyes fall closed, his own voice echoing in his head. _I need a doctor’s note,_ he’d said, sitting in a too-white doctors office, voice too high and face too young, staring at a man whose face was creased with age. Whose lab coat meant he had all the power.

 _I don’t have any reason to give you one, Daniel,_ the doctor had said.

“I don’t need anything,” he says. His throat is too tight, his head spinning as he grips his chair. “I’m not– I’m fine.”

“Dan–”

“No.” He swallows, forces his eyes open. Sue’s staring back at him, frowning. Her concern looks too genuine for a manager, too real for someone who shouldn’t care. “I’ve seen doctors,” he tells her. “They all say I’m fine.”

Sue nods.

Dan’s not sure if the bob of his own head is in quiet understanding or because his neck suddenly feels too weak to sit up straight.

\---

Dan ends up collapsed over the table in the break room. His arms hurt so much he can feel the incessant shudder of muscle under his skin. His neck burns. His toes have gone numb from the jab of the chair against the back of his thighs.

Sue’s gone, left him with a gentle hand on his shoulder and quiet well wishes.

Tears sting behind his eyes, burning with memories of days spent hunched over his desk at school, mind too muddled to make sense of what his teacher was talking about. Of the day he’d sat in his guidance counselor’s office, hugged his knees to his chest, and promised to attend more if only they would let him _stay._

He blinks them away, reaching for his phone and setting it on the table because his fingers feel too broken to hold it.

_Dan: does yur offer fro yeteday till stand_

The response is instant.

_Phil: of course_

_Dan: im goin home_

_Phil: okay_

_Phil: i’ll be there as soon as possible, okay?_

\---

The flat is empty when Dan gets there.

He pulls his shirt off at the door, arms aching when he lifts them above his head. A whimper grates at his throat and the fabric scratches along his spine. His fingers fumble when he reaches down to fumble with his trousers, shove them over his hips. He grips at the breakfast bar to kick them off his feet, ankles cracking when his weight settles upon them again.

His legs are too tense. Dan grips at his own thigh, cutting crescents into his skin as he holds himself together, dragging himself forward.

The sofa is still set up for him. The blanket Phil bought is still draped across the leather cushions. There’s a water bottle sitting one corner, next to a box of paracetamol that wasn’t there last night. The heating pad is still plugged in, still sitting there, rolled up nicely.

Dan lets himself fall, feeling the press of cushions to his spine so acutely a tear rolls down his cheek.

He blinks. Another tear falls.

There’s still a blanket hanging in front of the windows. The TV’s still off. Phil’s parents’ blender is sitting on the kitchen counter.

Dan draws his legs onto the sofa, hugs them to his chest until he can feel the dig of knees against the aching bone of his jaw. The next tear that falls smears against his kneecap, leaves his cheek damp.

The fridge, he knows, is filled with fruit Phil bought for smoothies. His bedroom is still mostly empty, but his pillows have shaped themselves to the back of his skull. Phil left his softest towel hanging in the bathroom for Dan to use next time he’s healthy enough to shower.

He swallows. A nerve twinges behind his eyes and he presses his knee to it, trying to quell the well of sorrow that burns behind his eyes, aches in his chest.

If he were in Wokingham, he would have walked through the door and left the painful fabric of his uniform on. Would have locked his spine and knees and marched to his bedroom like a proper young man with a body that bloody _works._ Would have yelled out _fine_ against the tightness of his throat when his mum asked how his day had gone.

Dan would have locked himself in his bedroom and collapsed onto the floor, too weak to make it to his bed.

Would have curled up in a ball and sobbed until the fragile bones in his chest throbbed from the stutter of his cries.

He used to do that, almost every day. When his dad would glare and his mum would tell him it would pass and there were no pain meds he could take because _there’s no need for them, Daniel._

Today, his fingers are too weak to pop a caplet from the box. But they’re there because Phil put them there. Because Phil made sure the flat was as comfortable for Dan as anything could be.

Dan licks at his lips, dry from breathing through his mouth. It tastes of salt, of tears. He glances up again, at where Phil has sacrificed his wall of windows so that Dan could spend painful days in the lounge, less lonely than he would be in the silent darkness of his bedroom.

It feels like home.

He doesn’t want to lose it.

\---

Phil’s quiet when he gets home.

He opens the door and closes it with barely a _click._ Dan listens to him set his work bag down, can imagine him walking towards the sofa, sweeping Dan’s clothes off the floor as he does. His footsteps are heavy, as always. It’s stupidly familiar, sitting there, listening to Phil exist.

It feels less lonely than it did with his family. Dan doesn’t bother to wonder why.

Phil settles on the armrest, and Dan cracks his eyes open. Phil’s wearing a red button down with white spots and skinny jeans, and his hair is combed into a fringe again, after a week of it being pulled back into a quiff. His smile is hesitant, crooked and comforting.

“You’re home early,” says Dan.

“I told my boss something came up with my family emergency,” says Phil.

“‘M not family.”

Phil fidgets, rolls Dan’s clothes between his hands. “I needed a reason to need a week off, so I told them I had a family emergency,” he says, voice low. “So if my boss asks, you’re my boyfriend, okay? Or brother but– Yeah, or brother.”

Dan feels his cheeks burn. “You lied to your boss?”

Phil doesn’t answer. He dips his head so his fringe is covering his eyes, still fidgeting with Dan’s clothes. “Did you take the paracetamol?”

“No,” says Dan. He watches as Phil sets his clothes aside to reach for the box of medication before letting his eyes slip closed, head falling back against the cushions of the sofa. He listens to the crinkle of foil as Phil draws the tablets from their box, the crackle of plastic when he reaches for the water bottle.

It reminds him of when he was little. When his mum would measure sickly sweet syrup for him, hand it to him in a tiny plastic cup without questioning if his pain was real.

A hand nudges at Dan’s shoulder. He cracks his eyes open to see Phil holding out two pills.

Part of him wants to say _it won’t help, nothing does._ But Phil’s just sitting there with a content smile and Dan still can’t entirely believe it’s not a burden to live with him.

Still can’t trust that, if he’s honest about how broken he is, Phil won’t turn him away.

“Thanks,” mumbles Dan.

Phil drops the tablets into his palm and cracks open the water bottle while Dan lets them fall into his mouth. The sip of water hurts to swallow, the phantom press of pills in his throat lingers even after a second, then third drink. He can practically feel the burn of them hitting his stomach, dissolving into uselessness that he’s long-since given up on.

This pain, he’s learned, doesn’t care about medication.

Phil’s still staring at him. Dan forces himself to crack a smile despite the aches rooted deep in his body.

“Thanks.”

A hint of concern is layered behind Phil’s smile, and Dan’s insides twist.

“You already said that,” says Phil. “How are you feeling?”

Dan shrugs. Something pulls painfully in his back. “Pretty shitty.”

Phil frowns then. He’s started fidgeting again, with the buttons of his shirt now, and reaches up to comb his fringe to the side. His palm settles against the crown of his head, and Dan would laugh at how awkward he looks if he wasn’t bitterly remembering that his stupid, inconvenient body caused this.

“I mean,” says Phil, but he cuts off, frowns again. “I just– How are you feeling, like, up here?”

He knocks his finger against his head once, twice, and Dan feels himself smile, wishing he could laugh without it ricocheting between his ribs and stealing his breath.

“Fine,” he answers. “I’m used to it.”

“But?”

His smile falters. “I’m just worried. About what to do now.”

“Oh,” says Phil. He reaches forward, letting his hand hover over Dan’s thigh before turning to face him, as though seeking permission to touch. When Dan nods, he lets his hand fall to rest on Dan’s knee. “You don’t have to worry about where to live, okay? I told you–”

Dan’s gasp is so quick he almost chokes. “I know,” he says, but it comes out as a shaky whisper that has Phil squeezing his knee gently.

He almost says more.

Almost says _you have no idea how much this means to me_ and _how do you know what to do all the time_ and _part of me can’t believe you’re real._

But his mind hangs most stupidly on the soft brush of Phil’s hand over his kneecap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

There’s another note on the counter today.

It’s Wednesday. Phil had watched Dan call in sick yesterday. Had helped him write out the letter that’s now folded neatly and pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like Mario’s hat. The note is next to it, on a yellow sticky note, handwriting hidden away under Luigi’s hat.

Dan grabs it. Phil’s handwriting is sloppy, rushed.

_ Good luck today. I’ll order pizza for dinner tonight  _ ~~_ to celebrate _ ~~ _ for comfort. _

He laughs, quiet and a little forced, before tucking the note into the pocket of his jeans and taking his letter off the fridge.

\---

Sue’s smile is knowing when he knocks on her office door that afternoon. 

“You’re not scheduled today, Dan,” she says. He watches as she sets her pen down, pushing aside whatever paperwork has been occupying her time.

He swallows.  “I know. I, uh, needed to talk to you.”

Sue’s gaze softens. A gentle smile curls at the corners of her mouth, and something in Dan’s chest clenches, his grip on the letter tightening. He wishes he could tear it up, toss it aside and promise to show up for whenever he’s scheduled next. 

She motions to the chair across her desk. Dan swallows against the rush of stupid relief that he won’t need to put effort into standing as he waits for her response. He sits down, smiling to keep from wincing when his knees crack and the muscles at the base of his spine spasm.

He presses the letter onto the desk, the envelope crinkled from how tightly it has been clenched in my fist.

“It’s my two week notice,” he says, a whisper as something cracks in his chest. 

Sue’s staring at him like the uni employee did when he announced he would be leaving. There’s something softer behind her eyes, a little more humanity in the way she hesitates before picking up his letter. But the crushing weight of  _ I failed  _ still settles upon Dan’s shoulders.

He’s tired of failing. 

Dan swallows. There’s a lump in his throat now. He wants to bury himself in soft blankets and pretend this wasn’t inevitable. 

That he hasn’t spent years postponing the day when he just couldn’t pretend anymore.

His eyes are watering when Sue finishes reading the letter, but she doesn’t mention it. 

“Would you like regular shifts for these two weeks?” she asks. 

He grips the armrests of the chair, not blinking because he knows if he does a tear will roll down his cheek. Words ache inside his chest, desperate pleas of  _ no, I’d rather go home and pretend none of this ever happened _ , but thinking that feels more like failure than writing out his resignation did.

Sue stares. She lets him sit in silence for a moment before speaking. “Given the circumstances, we can write you off the schedule sooner, if that’s what would be best for you.”

Dan nods. His voice cracks when he mumbles: “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

He’s halfway out the door when Sue calls his name one last time. She’s smoothing the folds from his letter, running her hands over creases in the page with her palms, and smiling in a way that reminds Dan vaguely of his nan.

“I hope everything works out for you,” she says, an unspoken goodbye.

He smiles. “Thank you,” he says. 

The tears start falling somewhere between her office and the sweets aisle.

\---

Dan ends up at Starbucks.

He can feel his tears smeared across his face and the swelling around his eyes. As the barista hands over his macchiato, he wonders if anyone was here when he stumbled in after his first day of work, but his mind can’t focus enough to distinguish their faces. 

The girl’s voice is chipper, like she can’t tell he’s been crying, when she wishes him a good day.

Dan drops onto a chair, lets his weight sink onto the table. He wants to take a sip of his drink, try to wash away the lingering tightness of tears with the sweetness of caramel and bitterness of coffee. But the nerves in his palm around sting from the heat of his cup, and he can imagine the burn that would erupt in his mouth if he took a sip.

He takes out his phone instead, opens his conversation with Phil.

_ Dan: i did it _

Phil doesn’t respond during the moments Dan stares at his name on the phone screen, so he leaves that conversation, and opens the last one he had with his mum instead. They don’t text often. The last message he sent is two words long and disinterested and follows a mere three messages before that.

He types out another one.

_ Dan: i quit my job _

It takes a minute before his phone starts ringing, his mum’s contact photo lighting up the screen. He almost declines the call, already feeling the pressure of her questions clawing at his mind. But he swipes his thumb across the screen, drags the phone to his ear.

“Hi mum,” he mumbles.

“You quit your job?” she says. And then, an afterthought: “Hello.”

He hums, because it’s easier than saying yes. 

“Why?”

“It just wasn’t a good fit,” he says. 

“Entry level jobs aren’t about being a good fit, Daniel,” says his mum.

He swallows. Suddenly, the scalding heat of his coffee sounds more appealing than this conversation. “It just didn’t work out, okay?”

She falls silent. 

Dan presses his forehead to the crook of his elbow. He drops his phone just long enough to pull his hood over his head, drown out the cafe. He feels twelve again, letting his mum down, listening to the unevenness of his own breathing and crying into his sleeve as he waits for her response.

“Are you going to see a–”

It’s familiar. Dan swallows back a whimper, knowing too well what comes next, but his mum never finishes her sentence.

“Doctors are useless,” he mumbles in response. 

She hums, the distant kind lilted with an unspoken  _ stop with the excuses, Daniel.  _ He presses his face harder into his arm, until the bones of his arm ache. 

“What about a–”

“I don’t need a bloody therapist.”

He hates that she goes quiet. Hates that he knows every word of this conversation, every undertone and unspoken word and the tight-lipped sorta worry probably written across her face right now. 

“Okay,” she says after a moment, soft and doubtful. “Are you moving back home then?”

“No.”

“Dan–”

“I have enough saved for a few months rent,” he tells her. “And my flatmate he’s– We’re gonna try to figure something out.”

She sighs, so loud he can picture the rise and fall of her chest. “You can’t just leech off this boy, Daniel.”

His chest tightens. A tear rolls down his cheek. He almost hangs up the call right then.

“I’m not fucking leeching off him,” he spits instead, because he’s never been good at shutting up. “Besides, I bet you’d rather I leech of him than off you and dad, huh? Bet it’s been great to have your sick son so far away.”

“ _ Daniel. _ ”

If they were in the same room, his dad would be ranting and his mum would be staring and Dan would stomp off and slam his bedroom door.

But they’re not. And he’s not sixteen anymore. And he can say: “He’s my  _ friend _ , mum, He wants to help me, if he can. And if not, well, I’ll call before I move back in, okay?”

“Dan–”

“I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up before she can say goodbye.

There’s a text notification when the call closes.

_ Phil: how are you feeling? _

_ Phil: still up for pizza tonight? _

Dan closes that conversation without answering, opens his too-empty one with Taylor instead.

_ Dan: you up to miss your afternoon lectures? _

_ Taylor: always _

\---

By the time Dan reaches the campus, his bones are rattled from the bus ride and his cheeks feel stiff and sticky from tears. He buries himself in his hoodie, head lowered as he makes his way to Taylor’s dorm. It’s growing warm outside, too warm for all black and long sleeves. 

He wonders, briefly, when that happened.

Probably while he was sitting in his pants in the dark lounge back at the flat.

Taylor meets him in the common area they used to share and never step into. Dan lets his gaze flit over the other people there, studying and socializing and having fun. He can’t even remember most of their names, doesn’t feel like he ever lived with them.

Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he’d only ever existed in their general vicinity.

They end up in Taylor’s room. Dan’s only been there a few times, on days when Taylor’s roommate was out and she’d barely been able to drag herself out of bed. When his body had been fine to sit at the foot of her too-thin mattress and play phone games until the press of the wall to his back grew too harsh.

It’s messier now, though. Taylor’s side of the room is littered in unfolded clothes, her laptop sitting crooked atop her bed. His eyes still burn and drift out of focus from having cried, but he can tell at a glance that she hasn’t showered, that she’s trying to drown in the oversized fabric of a jumper he’s never seen.

He should talk to her about it, should be there for her more than he has been lately. 

But then she’s reaching forward, flattening a hand against his shoulder and pushing him towards her bed. He sits down by the pillow, legs folded beneath him, head falling against the wall.

“What happened?” she asks.

Dan stares at her. They never talk about it, about her problems, but when he opens his mouth it’s to say: “Tay.”

She frowns. “I don’t want to talk about it,” says Taylor. “You don’t get to ask me to miss class and then lecture me on anything, Dan.”

“Were you going to go?”

Her shoulders tighten. She looks like she wants to bury herself in her jumper and never come out, and Dan wishes he didn’t know the feeling so well.

“Doesn’t matter,” she answers. “What happened?”

Dan sighs, chest caving in, body sinking deeper against the wall. “I quit my job.” Taylor looks up, eyes a little wide but not surprised and, well, she did drive him home after he fainted. Dan squeezes his eyes shut against the memory, “And told my mum.”

“Oh,” breathes Taylor. “And what did Mrs. Howell have to say about that?”

He shrugs, even though it aches and he wants to curl forward, hug his legs to his chest and bury his face and the incessant drone of memories in his mind between his knees. Wants to hold on tight, cling to some useless form of comfort until his collarbones bruise from the press of his own legs and his nose feels like it might split under the pressure.

Dan stares at the ceiling, where something’s left a deep brown stain.

“She thinks I should see someone,” he whispers.

“Like a doctor?”

“Or a therapist.”

Taylor’s responding laugh is too bitter, and Dan wonders for a moment if she thinks his mum is right. But when he glances down at her, she has a hand pressed to her own chest, fingers caught in the wool of her jumper. She dips her head, covers her face with her hair just like Phil does.

Dan looks away at the thought and tries to sound like the very idea doesn’t shatter him when he says: “She thinks I’m leeching off Phil.”

“She what?”

He shrugs, hoping it’s dimly lit enough that Taylor can’t see that tears brim his eyes again. “I told her I’m not moving back to Wokingham, not right now at least,” he says, the words  _ not ever  _ hanging on the tip of his tongue. “And that my flatmate was willing to help and, well, yeah.”

Taylor huffs. “Does she have no concept of empathy or, I don’t know, people actually being willing to help others?”

“No.”

It’s a little harsh, he thinks. But Dan closes his eyes, sends silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and lets himself think of how Phil had sat with him in the bathroom after his shower, had brought him crisps and a softer towel and promised with such sincerity that Dan–

“I’m not, am I?” he chokes.

Taylor reaches over, her hand curling a little too tightly around his knee. “You’re not,” she says. “He cares about you. He’s a good person. And just because she doesn’t know how to deal with all of this, doesn’t mean nobody cares or that you’re taking advantage of your flatmate.”

Dan lowers his head again. He wishes he could laugh at the absurdity of it all, the angst he carries with him, but Taylor’s still clinging to his knee the way doubt clenches in his chest.

“He’s too good to be true, Tay,” says Dan. 

“Last I checked, he didn’t have wings or a halo, so.” She shrugs. “You should let him help you. If he offers, and he doesn’t seem miserable, accepting willing help isn’t  _ leeching _ .”

He nods. 

“He cares about you,” says Taylor. 

Dan doesn’t say anything, because denying it would be a lie, but agreeing feels weighted with things Taylor doesn’t know about. With soft touches and quiet stares and echos of  _ home  _ in Dan’s mind in the middle of the night after only weeks of living together.

“Did you tell him you came here?”

He shakes his head. Taylor sighs. She lunges forward, reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone. He only realizes she’s unlocked it after a few moments of her not asking him for the passcode.

Then she throws it back at him, Phil’s now-answered messages lighting up the screen.

_ Phil: you okay? you’re not home. _

_ Dan: sorry _

_ Dan: went to see taylor _

_ Dan: ill be home for pizza tho _

He huffs out a laugh. “How did you get my texting so right?”

“All lowercase and no punctuation?” she says, a smile drawing at the corner of her mouth. “It’s not exactly difficult.”

“Shut up.”

She shakes her head, reaching forward to grab his wrist. “Nope,” she says. “You gotta deal with me for the drive back to your flat. You have a pizza date to get to, remember?”

Dan feels his cheeks go pink, but he does climb off the bed, because his shoulders feel lighter and uni dorms are miserable. He doesn’t miss them, he realizes. Doesn’t miss uni much at all, when the alternative is taking care of himself and playing video games and having a flatmate that  _ cares. _

“Hey Tay?”

She turns around, hand hovering at the door. 

He reaches for his phone, opens their conversation, because they don’t talk about these things but–

_ Dan: if i need to accept phil’s willing help you should accept some help too _

She blinks at the screen for a long moment before typing out her response.

_ Taylor: i have an appointment at the uni counsellor’s next week _

\---

Phil ordered his favourite pizza.

It’s sitting on the counter, still warm, when Dan gets there. Phil smiles at him from where he’s standing at the breakfast bar. 

“You gonna change into something more comfortable?” he asks.

Dan’s  laugh is too loud, too happy for the day he’s had. “You trying to get me into my pants?” 

Phil’s cheeks go bright red at that. He stumbles over words that never become coherent before giggling too, and shooing Dan away to his bedroom. 

Dan actually ends up changing into a pair of joggers and no shirt. Phil, he realizes when he steps back into the lounge, is wearing his usual pyjamas and a shirt with Charmander on it. He’s sitting on one of the breakfast bar stools, still smiling even though his cheeks are still blazing red.

For a few moments, they don’t say a word. Phil grabs plates and brings the pizza box into the lounge as Dan settles onto the sofa. The blanket, he realizes, has been smoothed out over the cushions. The makeshift curtain was fixed a bit, straightened over the window. The whole flat is dimly lit.

Phil sits down next to him, their thighs brushing together. Dan’s fairly certain that they could both lean away, put some more inches between them, but he can’t bring himself to do so.

Touch, for once, doesn’t hurt. Not like this.

They eat in silence, too, and suddenly everything feels weighted. The closeness, the quiet, the setup. 

And then Phil says: “I think you should meet my parents.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

There’s only one backpack.

Dan’s been thinking about it since he wedged the last of his things into it, since he watched Phil tug the zipper shut, smiling as he did. And again since he managed to tune out Phil’s pacing and the nervous flutter it elicits in his chest.

That was yesterday. And now the bag’s sitting next to him, and Dan’s been staring at it for what feels like forever. It’s one of his old ones that he brought to uni and used once, before his bones started aching and muscles gave out and carrying it around did nothing but make his spine hurt so much he could barely move.

This, he thinks, is a far better use for it. Except for the part where he can’t stop bloody staring at it. Like it means something. Like it isn’t just Phil’s way of ensuring this isn’t too difficult on Dan’s body. 

The reality of  _ this  _ settles even more heavily on Dan’s shoulders that the single backpack does.

He’s meeting Phil’s parents.

Dan blinks that thought away, forcing back the stupid images his mind hangs on. Like the one of sitting at the dinner table with Phil and his parents. And the one of what Phil’s childhood bedroom might look like. And the one of their clothes wedged together into a single bag, Phil’s colourful wardrobe next to Dan’s monochrome one.

_ Fuck.  _

He blinks again, and turns his focus back to Phil.

He’s  _ still  _ pacing.

Dan watches him, walking back and forth between the kitchen and the hallway. The blender is sitting on the sofa, and their bedroom doors are drawn closed. Phil turns on his heel by his door, and walks back to the corner of the breakfast bar for what must be the hundredth time.

Dan’s stomach twists, and he sighs. “If you don’t want to ask them–”

“No!” says Phil. He stops walking, standing awkwardly in the middle of undefined space where the lounge meets the entryway. His fringe is a little messy, a few strands curled up towards his head, as though he’s been running his fingers through it when Dan wasn’t watching. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Phil’s shoulders tense. “Nothing,” he says. And then, “I’ll tell you on the bus. We’re gonna be late.”

Dan frowns. 

Phil comes over to the sofa, and it’s as though his nerves have dissipated completely. He reaches over the back cushions to draw the backpack into his arms. And then his hand lands on Dan’s shoulder.

“I’ll help you up?”

Dan nods. His palms press to the leather and his elbows quiver under his weight. Phil’s hand nothing but a soft pressure against his back as he drags himself to his feet. He’s staring, though, when Dan turns towards him.

“Are you ready?” asks Phil, a soft smile playing at his lips.

His fringe is still sticking up at odd angles, and Dan has the stupid urge to reach up and comb it aside for him. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”

\---

The bus is crowded, and they end up sitting near the front with their thighs pressed together and the backpack sitting between their ankles. 

Dan can already feel the rumble of the bus vibrating his bones, the bumps jerking the parts of him that would rather not move. His breath catches on a turn that has his shoulder, the sensitive part of it, pressing hard against Phil’s arm. He forces himself to exhale before Phil notices.

Except that Phil’s already noticed. His hand drifts along Dan’s leg to settle on his knee.

“You okay?”

Dan nods. “You wanted to talk?”

Phil’s brow pinches when he frowns. His hand tightens around Dan’s knee. “I– not really,’ he says. “But kind of, yeah.”

The bus drags to a stop, and Dan’s tense shoulders press too hard against the back of his seat, weak neck jerking backwards with the movement. When he blinks his vision back into focus, Phil’s watching him, free hand hovering in mid air as though he wants to reach out, hold Dan until his bones grow stable.

Dan doesn’t think about what it means that he’d let him.

His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, and all he can say is a mumbled: “Okay?”

Phil’s responding chuckle is silent. His hand falls, twisting into the fabric of his shirt instead. “Just, um, boundaries, I guess?” he says, dipping his head forward so his fringe covers his eyes and Dan can barely catch his whispers over the buzz of the bus.

“Boundaries?”

Phil shrugs. 

Dan’s heart is suddenly beating louder, heavier in his chest. He turns away, glancing at where Phil’s thumb is smoothing the wrinkles in his jeans. He tries to ignore it, forcing a smirk. “I promise to keep my clothes on in front of your parents.”

Phil squeaks. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Sounded like what you meant,” says Dan, even though it didn’t. Even though he still hasn’t calmed the racing of his heart. He forces a laugh past the pressure there, watching the way Phil’s cheeks go pink. “I’m sure your parents will appreciate it.”

“I’m sure they will,” says Phil, distant as though he’s not really sure what he’s agreeing with. “But that’s not what I meant.”

The severity in his voice settles, cold, upon Dan’s shoulders then. A whiny mumble laced with so many undertones Dan can hardly focus on, and the racing of his heart grows faster, until the inside of his chest aches with it. He glances back down at his knee, where Phil’s thumb jams hard against the jut of his bones.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “What did you mean?”

Phil shrugs again. “Just, like, I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know how okay you are with telling people when you’re in pain so I thought, maybe, if you’re comfortable telling me what you’re not okay with I could tell them, I guess?”

“Oh.” Dan swallows. His chest feels even tighter now, the pressure tense in his throat, aching against his temples. “I’m literally asking them for money, Phil, they don’t need to compromise anything for me.”

“ _ I’m  _ asking them for money,” says Phil, flicking his fringe out of his eyes as he looks up so Dan can see the certainty in his eyes. “And it’s not a compromise to not hug you if it’s going to hurt you, Dan, it’s being nice.”

He nods, but still, all he can say is: “Oh.”

Phil frowns. “You don’t have to, though. If you don’t want to, I mean. It’s up to you, I just thought — I don’t know, that it could help you.”

Dan nods, again.

They’re silent for a long moment after that. Dan feels the rumble of the bus beneath him, vibrating his bones until some of the pressure dissipates. He sucks in a breath when the bus draws to a stop again, letting his head sway with the vehicle. The person across the aisle from him is watching something on their phone, and Phil’s staring out the window, his skin a little more pale than usual.

Despite the tension, his hand remains on Dan’s knee.

“Hugs are okay, as long as they’re not too tight and not over my arms,” he blurts.

Phil jumps, but he’s smiling when he turns around. 

“I think I can eat most things now, except things that are sharp around the edges like crisps,” Dan adds. “I’m not good at walking around, but most sitting activities should be okay for a day. My neck gets weak, though, so I might need to lay down or, like, rest against the couch or something, you know?”

Phil nods. 

“Oh, and I don’t like people touching my neck, especially the back of it. It– it hurts.”

“Okay,” says Phil. 

His smile’s grown wider, and Dan tries not to dwell on how it makes him smile, too.

“And my insomnia tends to keep me up at night, so I usually sleep through the morning,” he says, sinking back against the seat only to remember it’s unyielding and aches where it presses against his bones. “That’s all.”

Phil stares at him for a long moment, something silently thoughtful in his gaze. Dan realizes his cheeks are hot, and Phil’s thumb is tracing circles against his knee again.

“I’ll tell them,” says Phil.

He pulls out his phone and texts them with one hand. 

\---

Phil carries the backpack when they get to the Lesters.

He’s smiling a little too wide, and walks around the car to help Dan out of the cab. Their fingers lace together and Dan’s heart tightens, gaze flicking over the front door of Phil’s parents’ house. The importance of it all has settled, heavy and painful, in his bones. 

Phil squeezes his hand, and Dan realizes how tightly he’d been clutching Phil’s fingers. 

“You okay?”

Dan nods. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks. “Asking them? I don’t want to cause trouble or anything.”

Phil frowns, and squeezes his hand again. “I don’t want you to have to move out,” he says, like that would have anyone bringing their sort of new roommate to their parents house to ask for money. “And they’re good at helping me when I need it. Too good at it sometimes.”

“Oh,” says Dan. He wants to add  _ but you don’t need it, I do, _ but Phil’s staring at him like he really doesn’t want Dan to protest anymore.

He’s still gripping, tight, at Dan’s hand. 

“Yeah,” says Phil. He shrugs, and lets their hands fall apart. “You ready?”

Dan swallows, stepping away from the cab and bumping the door closed with his hip. It only takes a moment for the car to drive away, and when he turns back to Phil. he’s smiling. They don’t say another word before Phil’s walking towards the door. Dan follows, head dipped, staring at the backpack.

Phil knocks once before his mum opens the door, so quick Dan’s sure she was waiting on the other side. 

Her arms are already open, drawing him into a hug with a happy hello. Her face is a lot like Phil’s, he notices, a little more creased with age, a little rounder. She smiles a little wider than Phil does, but her eyes are the same mixture of shades, and crinkle with joy in the same way.

For a moment, Dan thinks of his own mum. Of how she hugs him when they reunite, before the misunderstandings and pain can come between them. 

Phil pulls away from his mum and slips inside, leaving Dan standing on the doorstep with her.

“Hi,” he says, a mumble. 

She’s still smiling. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” says Dan, before reminding himself it’s a stupid response. “You too.”

She glances at the door, where Phil’s staring at the floor again, and back to him. “Phil told me you’re okay with hugs, as long as they’re not too tight?”

Dan nods.

“Can I?”

Another nod, and then Mrs. Lester is reaching out, wrapping her arms loosely around Dan’s middle. He hugs her shoulders, staring at Phil over the top of her head. She’s gentle, and warm, and. It feels like a mother’s hug.

Dan’s throat is tight when he pulls away, and Kath motions for him to step inside.

Phil’s father’s standing there. He holds a hand out. “Nigel,” he offers. “It’s good to meet you.”

Dan takes his hand. “Dan,” he returns. “And you too.”

The handshake is loose, not the strong kind Dan would expect of his own father, or that his father would expect of him. It’s strangely comfortable. Dan has to swallow against a lump in his throat when he turns away and his eyes find the happiness spread across Phil’s face.

“We’re having soup for dinner,” says Mrs. Lester. “I, uh, thought that would be a dish everyone could enjoy.”

He can feel the words she isn't saying. The  _ Phil told me you were having trouble swallowing, so I made something for you,  _ that’s shining in her eyes the way quiet support so often gleams in Phil’s. It’s her blender sitting on their kitchen counter, her son who’s so good at trying to make sure Dan’s okay.

He smiles at her. “That sounds great,” he says. “Thank you.”

The easy accomodation is warm across his skin when Phil reaches out, rests a hand on Dan’s elbow, and leads him to the lounge. 

\---

The house smells of homemade soup and clean blankets. 

Dan’s settled on the sofa, and Phil’s taken the spot next to him. Mr. Lester is sitting across the room in an armchair that looks worn and lived in, the newspaper resting on the end table next to him. Mrs. Lester, after checking on the food, comes and sits down in the empty space on Dan’s other side.

He tries to keep his spine straight and his head from bobbing on his shoulders. His feet stay firmly on the ground, even when they start to tingle with numbness. 

Dan wonders if Phil’s parents know why they’re here, and how much Phil’s told them. If they know about the job he no longer has or the law degree he’ll probably never get or the way their son keeps offering him help even when Dan’s not entirely sure he deserves it. 

He waits, focusing on not fidgeting, for them to blurt out something deprecating about how he shouldn’t need financial support from his flatmate’s parents. 

But Mrs. Lester just smiles and says: “You’re from the south, aren’t you?”

Dan almost jumps in surprise, and Phil’s fingers brush against his hip like a silent  _ I told you they’d be nice. _

“Yeah,” he says. “Wokingham, near Reading.”

She nods. 

“Do you miss it down there?” asks Mr. Lester. 

“Not really,” says Dan. He glances at Phil, wondering, again, if his parents even know why they came out to Rawtenstall. “I like it better up here. I’ve made some good friends, and the city’s really nice.”

“So Manchester’s been treating you well?” asks Mrs. Lester. 

It’s small talk, Dan knows. But he feels himself smiling, sinking a little more comfortably into the Lesters’ sofa. “Better than I could’ve expected,” he says.

Phil’s knuckles press against his hip again. 

“And having Phil as a flatmate?” asks Nigel. 

Dan swallows. “It’s been good,” he says. “Really good. We have a lot, uh, in common.”

It feels like an understatement. Dan feels his cheeks go pink at the thought of all the thinks he could say, but doesn’t. All the days Phil’s sat by his side in a dark room just to keep him company through the pain. The smoothies and easy meals and constant support. The soft touches and warm voice counting Dan’s breaths for him when his mind is too distracted by agony to do it himself.

He swallows. Mr. Lester’s smiling at him.

“Good,” says Mrs. Lester. “We were a little worried when Phil set out to find a flatmate. It’s good to know you guys are friends.”

Dan nods. “Yeah,” he says, instead of another mumbled  _ oh.  _

When he turns to glance at Phil, his gaze has fallen to his polka dot socks, and his cheeks have gone pink. Dan makes a mental note to find out what his mum means by that, just as Phil’s hand drifts from his hip to brush along his thigh. It feels like a request, a  _ don’t ask about it now, please,  _ so he turns back to Mrs. Lester.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says, “for having us.”

“It’s our pleasure, Dan,” says Mrs. Lester. Dan wonders how anyone’s smile can look so sincere.

He smiles back at her. “Still, I appreciate it a lot,” he says. “I’m sorry we have to spend the night–”

She waves her hand before he can finish. “It’s really not a problem, Dan,” she says. “We always want to see Phil, and having you here, I’m sure, will be great.”

Dan swallows. “Oh,” he hears himself say, again. 

Next to him, Phil’s hand drifts again, up his leg to brush at his hip again. It’s silent and comforting and where his parents probably can’t see, and Dan tries not to focus on how much he would have missed the simple touches if Phil had set different boundaries around his parents.

Boundaries. Like gentle hugs and soup for dinner, and Dan feels warmth seep into his chest at the thought. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Lester,” he says. 

He’s not talking about letting him stay in her home anymore, isn’t even sure that she could understand why he needs to thank her without knowing about everything that came before this moment.

But she doesn’t seem to care. She simply reaches over, sets a careful hand on Dan’s shoulder.

“Call me Kath, Dan,” is all she says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

Talking to the Lesters is surprisingly easy. 

Or maybe not so surprisingly. Kath is telling him about their trips down south when Phil was younger and Dan can’t help but think of how simple it had been to just sit around and play Mario Kart with his new flatmate. How easy Phil made it to tell him all about the broken parts of Dan’s body.

Kath has the same non-judgemental look in her eyes when Dan lets himself sink deeper into their sofa. Nigel smiles in that same slightly crooked way.

“–Phil was terrified of London for years afterwards,” Kath finishes. 

When Dan turns to him, Phil’s cheeks are a little pink.

“You were scared of London?”

Phil huffs. His hand, still resting between them, presses against Dan’s leg again. “We only saw the touristy bits,” he says, head dipped and voice going high. “It was busy! And I wasn’t scared, I just didn’t want to go back.”

“Sounds like you were scared, mate.”

“Whatever,” Phil mumbles. 

Dan’s smiling when he turns back towards Kath. She’s grinning back at them, eyes darting between him and Phil in a way that makes Dan’s stomach twist. He sits up a little straighter, ignoring the way his spine protests at the lack of support, hoping Phil’s parents don’t notice the wince that he feels flash across his features.

Kath must, though, because her smile softens, and she pushes herself to stand.

“We’re going to finish dinner,” she says. “Phil, why don’t you show Dan the house?”

Phil nods. Nigel folds up the newspaper he’d been holding but not reading and follows Kath from the lounge, into the kitchen. Almost as soon as they’re gone, Phil’s hand is on Dan’s knee, familiar and warm and enough to have him sinking back against the cushions like he would at home.

“Do you want to see the house?” asks Phil.

Dan hums. Phil’s thumb rubs an arc against his jeans.

“Or I can just show you your room, if you’re tired?”

“No,” says Dan. “I want to see your–”  _ room _ , he wants to say, but his stomach clenches at the thought, “–house.”

Phil’s hand tightens around his knee, a smile spreading across his face that has Dan’s nerves unraveling. He watches Phil push himself off the sofa, turn towards him with eyes shining bright. He reaches out, offers Dan his hand, and helps him to his feet.

Dan expects him to let go once they’re both on their feet, but Phil just adjusts his grip so their palms fit together nicely, and leads Dan down a hallway.

It takes Dan a few moments to realize he should probably care when Phil’s telling him the house he’ll be sleeping in is definitely haunted.

\---

Most of the house tour involves Phil pointing at doors or stairs and telling Dan what lies beyond them, as though he doesn’t want to drag Dan around the house. He motions to the way to the basement, and another in the general direction of his parents room. 

“You have a brother?” Dan asks, after Phil motions to a closed bedroom door. 

Phil’s response is a chuckle. “Yeah, uh, Martyn,” he says. “We don’t see each other all that often but, uh, you should meet him sometime.”

Dan’s stomach twists again. His gaze flits from the hallway down to where Phil’s hand drifts across his, and he swallows against the urge to take Phil’s fingers in his again.

“So where’s your room?” he asks.

Phil’s cheeks flush again. He dips his head and leads Dan towards a different part of the house, where the wallpaper’s different and not dotted with family photographs. Dan’s laugh rumbles through his chest, aching just a little, as he reaches up to run his fingers along a black frame that looks like it was bought at Poundland.

“Buffy?”

When he glances back down the hall, Phil’s already standing by an open door. His cheeks are bright red now, his eyes dipped, fringe falling over one half of his face. Despite the slow pace he took for the rest of the house tour, he’s a good six steps ahead of Dan now, as though he was hoping Dan would rush past the photos with him. 

Something warm rushes through Dan’s chest. It’s not painful at all.

“Yeah,” mumbles Phil. “I was maybe, um, just a little, you know, obsessed.”

Dan looks back up at the photo. “Just a little, huh?” he says. 

Phil nods. “A perfectly reasonable amount.”

There’s a quip at the tip of Dan’s tongue about Phil having a thing for Sarah Michelle Gellar, but he glances back at the rosy tinge of Phil’s cheeks, the way his hands are twisting in front of him, and that warmth in his chest flares hot. It burns, just a little, against his ribs, as he laughs and steps away from the photo.

When he reaches Phil’s side, Dan can’t help but let their hands brush, curling his finger loosely around Phil’s before pulling away.

“We should watch it sometime,” he says. “Instead of just playing Mario Kart.”

Phil smiles, reaching up to sweep his fringe back to the side. “Okay,” he says, a whisper. “But you still owe me Mario Kart tips, remember?”

Dan hums, stepping past Phil and into the bedroom. There’s more Buffy pictures on the walls, splattered among band and film posters that have Dan acutely aware of their similar interests. The walls are blue and green, and the bedspread looks like something his parents dug out of a closet when he moved out. Dan lets his gaze sweep across the furniture left behind, the little pieces of evidence that Phil actually lived here.

Phil’s bouncing on his toes next to him, still wringing his hands in nervous anticipation.

The first thing Dan says about the room is: “This is the most atrocious carpet I’ve ever seen.”

Laughter bubbles from Phil’s chest like it was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “Hey!” he says. “I chose that carpet.”

Dan glares at it, neon green and absolutely hideous. “Remind me to never let you make any design choices for our flat,” he says.

Phil’s bouncing stops. Dan feels his cheeks burn as they flush.

“If I’m still living there, I mean.”

He blinks up at a Kill Bill poster on the wall, ignoring the painful racing of his heart. But Phil seems unbothered, simply reaching over and wrapping his hand around Dan’s again, squeezing gently. 

“You’ll still be living there,” he says. “I’ll smuggle you into my bedroom and get a third flatmate if we need to.”

Dan laughs, because it’s easier than focusing on how that warmth in his chest feels like it’s threatening to burst outwards. Easier than thinking about how Phil’s hand is still holding onto his maybe just a little too tightly.

“I meant for that to sound more innocent than it did,” says Phil. “Now come on, I’ll show you your room before I embarrass myself even more.”

\---

Dan ends up staying in the guest room they set up for him until mid afternoon. 

Once he let his bones collapse into the soft welcome of a mattress, dragging himself back out to socialize seemed impossible. So Phil had left him there with a promise that his parents would understand and ordered him to get some rest. Dan let his body, still shaken from the bus ride, collapse against a clean duvet, and stared at the ceiling as Phil drew the door closed.

He steps outside the room slowly, once he’s wiped the fatigue from his eyes and smoothed his hair back into a neat fringe he hasn’t cared to style in weeks. The halls are quiet, the lounge empty. 

The first person he finds is Kath, standing in the kitchen over a pot of soup, smiling at him from the moment he steps through the doorway.

“Hi, Dan,” she says. “Feeling any better?”

He nods. “Yes, thank you.”

“Phil’s just upstairs helping Nigel with something,” she tells him. Dan watches as she sets her wooden spoon aside and sets the lid back on the pot. “Would you like to sit with me?”

She motions to the dining table, apron still drawn over her frame. Dan wonders if she would normally sit, or linger by the stove as she prepared dinner. The familiar  _ I’m fine _ curls at the tip of his tongue, but he forces it back with a smile. 

“I’d like that,” he says.

Kath smiles, soft and warm, and leads him to the dining table. She sits across from him, arms crossed over the table. Nerves twist in Dan’s stomach as he watches her gaze sweep over his frame, and he hunches forward, sinking back against the wooden chair like he would when he was a kid.

When he was fifteen and his mother’s gaze wasn’t nearly as kind as Phil’s mum’s is.

“You don’t need to worry, Dan,” she says. “I don’t bite.”

He squirms in his seat anyway, fingers curled tight around the edge of his chair. “I know,” he mumbles. 

“Was the room okay?” she asks. “We have some extra pillows if you need some.”

“It was great, thank you,” Dan says, smiling up at her. He wants to thank her again for having him, for the little ways of accommodating him, for how she smiles at him like he’s just another friend of her son’s, but the words flutter silently in his chest. 

“Of course,” says Kath. “Thank you, for coming to see us. I know the travel couldn’t have been easy. Nigel and I really appreciate the consideration.”

Dan’s chest tightens on his inhale, fingers clutching at his seat. “Oh,” he manages. “Of course. The, uh, travel was nothing, all things considered. I–” His mouth clamps shut, ribs stuttering as he sucks in a breath. 

Kath’s gaze softens further, to something kind and worried and welcoming. 

“Can I ask you something?” says Dan.

“Of course.”

He swallows. “Do you and Nigel know why we’re here?”

Dan watches as her smile fades to something more serious. She links her hands over the table, just like Phil does when he’s trying not to fidget. Even with his breath caught, arms aching, hands shaking and weak, he feels the draw of a smile at the corner of his cheek at the site.

“We do,” says Kath. “Phil didn’t want to put us on the spot. He doesn’t like asking for things, that child of mine.”

“Oh.” Dan lets go of the chair, digging his nails into his palm instead. “But he’s asking you guys for–”

Kath’s smile returns, gaze tripping over his body. Dan wonders if she can see how tense his shoulders are, the quivering of his arms  he can feel in his muscles, the way his ribs stay locked tight around words he can’t bring himself to say. If she thinks it’s just nerves, like his mum often does, or if she can see the something  _ more  _ that lies beneath.

“He did,” she says. “He does a lot for the people he cares about.”

“He–”  _ cares about me? _ It sounds stupid, has Dan’s heart beating painfully against his ribs, his fists tightening until the press of his nails has painful shocks zipping along his forearm. He tries not to think about crisps shared on that first day, of smoothies made just for him, of the soft towel Phil handed him when Dan almost fainted in the bathroom.

Of course Phil cares. That doesn’t stop the way Dan’s heart races at the thought.

“Can I ask you something else?” he asks Kath.

She nods.

“Do you think I’m taking advantage of him?”

Kath smiles, the knowing kind that has a shudder crawling up Dan’s spine. “Do you care about him?”

“Yes.”

He doesn't need to think about it. Something tight and hot curls at his insides, so overwhelming it’s nauseating. But he does think about it, about Phil counting his breaths and playing Mario Kart and pizza dinners after smoothie breakfasts and  _ I don’t care what they said, I want to know how you feel.  _

“He’s my– He’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had,” Dan says. 

_ I don’t know how I would have survived this month without him,  _ he almost adds, but his throat tightens around the words, burning and swollen and making Dan choke on things unspoken. 

He coughs into his elbow until his eyes water, sting his eyes so acutely he’s sure his vision will need to recover. Kath stands, returns to his side with a glass of water and a careful hand on his back. 

She’s tentative like Phil and warm in all the ways Dan’s mum never knew how to be. He takes a sip of his water to keep the tears that spring to his eyes from falling.

“Thank you,” he croaks. 

Kath draws her hand away. “No worries, dear.” She walks around the table, returning to her seat as though nothing happened. “Does that happen often?”

“Not like that,” he says. “It usually just hurts.”

“Ah, okay,” says Kath, and then: “Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you feel like you’re taking something from my son by accepting his help,” she says, “but you should know that you’re helping him too.”

Dan’s throat goes tight again. He takes another sip of water. “How?”

Kath smiles. “The things you need may seem more obvious, but Phil struggles, too,” she says. “What he really needs is a friend, and you give him that.”

“Oh,” says Dan. His chest is tight, throat burning more at the threat of tears stinging behind his eyes. He wants to sip at his water just to occupy himself, to hide his relieved smile behind the rim of a glass, but his hands curl into fists instead.

Kath’s eyes twinkle. Dan feels his cheeks flush.

“Or more than a friend?”

Dan’s vaguely aware of the ache in his jaw when his mouth falls open. He brings his hand up to rub at the joint when he snaps it shut again, feels the pressure vibrate in his bones. Kath’s still smiling at him and, behind her, someone clears their throat.

He glances over to see Nigel standing there, a box in his hands. Phil’s standing next to him, clutching what looks like a photo album to his chest. 

Phil’s cheeks, Dan thinks, are redder than he’s ever seen them.

“No, mum,” he says. “Just friends.”

He smiles at Kath, but when he looks at Dan, it’s worry that shines behind his eyes.

\---

The soup is delicious, warm enough to soothe some of the ache in his throat, to settle on his stomach without the burn of hot food that so often comes. Dan sips at the broth from his spoon until his bowl is empty, just because he can swallow it easily.

And because anxiety twists in his gut as he waits for Phil to mention the reason they’re here.

Phil’s leg bounces under the table through all of dinner. He hums through small talk about old family friends, nods along to stories from his uni days. He dips his head towards his bowl, his fringe falling over his face so only Dan can see the wideness of his eyes, the way he bites his lip between swallows.

His parents tell Dan about Phil’s degrees, and though he’s already heard of them, something painful bursts in his chest at the pride in their voice. Then they talk about old family vacations and Dan tells them about his trip to India, joking about how the heat almost killed him even as Phil’s worried gaze finds his. 

Phil clears the table when they’re all finished eating and squirms in his seat when he sits back down.

“So I need to ask you guys something,” he says, words barely a mumble. 

Kath reaches across the table to rest a hand over Phil’s. “Dan knows you already told us,” she says. There’s something behind her smile that makes Dan sure there’s other words that go unspoken. 

“Oh,” says Phil. “Okay. Do you guys want to talk about anything or–”

Dan notices Phil’s mum squeeze his hand. “We have a few questions for Dan,” she says, her gaze cutting across the table to land on him, “if that’s okay?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I couldn’t ask you for– Yeah, it’s okay.”

Nigel smiles then, too. “Thank you,” he says. “My wife and I were just curious about what you’re illness is.”

Dan’s heart drops. Nausea burns in his stomach. Tears well in his eyes before he can even consider what to say. 

Phil drops one hand under the table, reaches over to brush his fingertips over Dan’s knuckles. “It’s complicated, dad,” he says, voice low like he’s begging his parents to understand.

To do something Dan could never ask them to do.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, familiar words bitter on his tongue. 

Phil’s hand presses harder against his. “It’s not nothing.”

“I don’t have a diagnosis.”

“Not having a diagnosis doesn’t make it nothing, Dan,” says Kath. Dan looks up at her, catches the gleam of sympathy in her eyes. “How does it affect you?”

Dan swallows, blinking the tears from his eyes. It’s been years since someone, besides Phil, asked. Years since he could explain without the threat of a doctor tearing his life to shreds looming over his head. 

Phil’s hand slides into his, warm and comforting and the knot in Dan’s chest loosens.

“Pain, mostly,” he says. “Everywhere, for no reason. It gets worse when I do things, like standing or walking. And because of random things like sunlight or noise or– just a lot of things.”

Nigel nods. Kath hums in quiet understanding. Under the table, Phil squeezes his hand again.

“Fatigue, too,” Dan adds. “I have really bad insomnia. I have some blood pressure problems, too, so I’ve fainted a few times. Once was, um, at work.”

He feels the flush rise on his cheeks. Phil’s grip on his hand tightens.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” says Nigel.

“That sounds so difficult, Dan,” says Kath. 

He nods, gaze falling to trace the pattern of their tablecloth. His heart feels warm, a little heavy and a little hurt. He can suck in a steadying breath with only a mild burst of pain between his ribs and it’s better than he expected. More comfortable than anything has led him to expect. 

His grip on Phil’s hand tightens. 

“So you want our help with rent, right?” says Nigel.

Phil nods. “Just for a little while, so we can figure stuff out.”

“And living together would make you happy?” says Kath. She’s staring at Phil now.

He smiles back at her. “It really would, mum.”

Dan stomach twists as he watches Nigel and Kath look at each other. Phil holds his hand so tight the bones there start to ache, but all Dan does is clutch back and wait for them to say no. For every time a doctor looked at him and told him he was perfectly healthy to tear him apart again.

But Nigel’s smiling when he looks back at Dan. And so is Kath.

“We’ll help you, boys,” she says. 

Nigel’s staring at Dan when he says: “And if you need help figuring out where to go from here, feel free to reach out.”

When Dan exhales that time, it doesn’t hurt at all.

\---

Phil excuses them for bed when Dan’s eyes start to droop and his head starts to loll back against the sofa. 

They’ve just lost their second game of  _ Who Wants to be a Millionaire  _ on Phil’s old Playstation and the ache of existing for a day has settled in his bones again, and his eyes burn from being exposed to normal lighting all day. Nerves have left his ribs too sore to take deep breaths, and dying adrenaline has fatigue drawing at the back of his mind. Dan smiles at Nigel and Kath before Phil takes his head, draws him to his feet as Dan’s wrists crack.

They reach the stairs that lead to their bedrooms and, without a second’s hesitation, Phil holds his arm out for Dan. He loops their arms together, accepting Phil’s silent support as his wobbly knees struggle with each step. 

Phil follows Dan to the guest room, their bodies pressed together until Dan’s pushing the door open and slipping inside. 

He lets himself fall onto the bed. Phil pushes the door closed with his back.

“How are you feeling?”

Dan crawls up to his pillow even though the fabric of his jeans scratches at his legs. “Sore. Tired,” he mumbles into the pillow. The lights are off, but Dan still lets his eyes fall closed. “Happy.”

“Yeah?” says Phil. 

Dan can hear his smile, and feels himself do the same.

“Yeah.”

He stays there, eyes closed, as Phil’s footsteps echo in the room. The mattress dips as he sits at the foot of the bed, and Dan cracks his eyes open to see that Phil’s smile has fallen and he’s fidgeting again.

“You okay?”

Phil nods. 

Dan’s elbows crack as he pushes himself off the mattress, sits down at the head of the bed instead. The headboard presses too harshly against his spine, but Dan still presses back against it as he reaches out to nudge Phil’s thigh with his toes.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“You know that thing my mum said? About us being more than friends?” says Phil. He turns to Dan, eyes wide. “Did it bother you?”

Dan’s neck hurts as he shakes his head.

“Oh, okay.” Phil glances down, smiles at where Dan’s toes are splayed over his leg. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that, uh, when I told them, you know, they didn’t take it all that well. They’re better now, but mum tends to overcompensate a bit.”

“Oh.” Dan curls his toes against Phil’s leg, watching as Phil’s hand settles over his foot, warm and strangely comforting. “So you’re–”

“Gay?” says Phil. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I like boys.”

Dan swallows, because suddenly he wants to say  _ me too. _ Except he’s never actually thought about, never considered being with anyone since his first girlfriend broke up with him after a month because he’d been too ill to do anything with her. Never thought he might–

Until now. Because it feels too right.

“Oh,” he says instead. “I’m glad she’s trying. You deserve it.” He pauses. “Your parents seem nice.”

Phil squeezes his foot, and Dan considers that he should probably find it weird, but then Phil’s smiling at him and he forgets to.

“You think so?”

Dan hums. “Yeah,” he says, smiling back at Phil. “I get to stay in Manchester.”

Phil’s smile goes wide, eyes gleaming in the low light filtering through the window. “I know,” he says, happy and excited and Dan’s chest floods with warmth so acutely it burns. 

They sit there in silence for a moment. Phil’s hand is still on his foot and Dan’s brain decides to remind him that he might like boys, but he distracts himself by staring at the smile that lingers on Phil’s face.

“Dan?”

He blinks. Phil’s staring back at him now. “Yeah?”

“You know how you said hugs are okay, as long as they’re gentle and not over your arms?” asks Phil. His nervous fidgeting has him plucking at the fabric of Dan’s sock.

Dan smiles. “Yeah.”

Phil’s gaze falls. “Can I?”

Dan curls his toes against Phil’s thigh, feels him squeeze in response. “Yeah,” he says.

He draws his feet towards him, folding his legs under his body as Phil shifts towards the head of the bed. Dan reaches for him first, wrapping his arms around Phil’s shoulders and pulling him close. Phil’s hands hover over his waist for a moment before settling against his sides, drifting over his t-shirt to wrap around his back. 

Dan’s ribs still ache and the touch makes his nerves sting, but Phil presses his face against his shoulder and holds Dan close and Dan doesn’t want to let go. 

Phil pulls away first, cheeks red and a soft smile curling at his lips. 

“I’m glad you’re staying,” he says, standing. 

Dan watches as Phil grabs his pyjamas from their shared backpack before slipping out the door with a quiet  _ goodnight _ , leaving Dan sitting there with a smile still drawing at his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

The flat feels too empty now, after the rush of familial affection and constant support from the Lesters. Phil’s gone to work, and Dan trudges out of his bedroom for the first time since they got home yesterday to an empty sofa, blank TV screen and clean kitchen counters.

He tugs at the hem of the t-shirt he didn’t bother to take off before falling into bed last night, fidgeting with a thread that’s drawn free from the stitching.

His blanket is still laid out across the sofa. The windows are still covered. There’s still a bottle of paracetamol sitting on the coffee table. The rattling has lingered, phantom in his bones, since they stepped off the bus, and the flurry of activity has left his muscles aching.

Dan sinks onto the sofa. It’s growing warmer outside, and heat leeches into the flat even though the covered windows keep sunlight out. It prickles over Dan’s skin, an edge of budding summer he knows will hurt, and yet still he reaches back, draws the blanket from where it’s draped over the cushions, and tugs it around his shoulders.

It smells like him. And it smells like _Phil_.

Dan swallows against the pressure in his throat, fingers clutching at the soft fabric. He pulls the blanket even tighter around his shoulders, head lolling to rest on his own shoulder. His neck’s gone weak, and Dan’s not sure if it’s the residual effect of the weekend or the sudden rush of longing that floods through him weighing him down.

He blinks the thought away, letting go of the blanket so it falls loosely over his frame and reaching for his phone instead.

There’s a text from Taylor, which she must have sent while he was asleep.

_Taylor: how’d meeting the in-laws go???_

Dan rolls his eyes, but only after his gaze lingers a moment too long on the words. His stomach feels twisted, knotted, as he closes the messaging app and opens the phone one instead. He never calls people, so his mum’s number lingers at the top of the list.

He puts the call on speaker, setting his phone on the back of the sofa and letting his held tilt back.

His mum answers on the third ring.

“Dan?”

He hates that it’s laced with worry. That she’s grown to expect his presence to be associated with pain and illness and desperate cries for help. Or, perhaps, that he’s taught her to expect that in the months since he moved to Manchester and dedicated his energy to not needing his parents anymore.

“Hi, mum,” he says. “How’s your day been?”

She’s silent for a beat too long before saying: “It’s been okay, dear. And yours?”

Dan doesn’t tell her that he only woke up a little while ago. He wonders if she remembers, from the summer before uni, how many days he would spend in bed, sleeping into the afternoon.

“It’s been okay,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be staying in Manchester for the foreseeable future.”

“Dan–”

“I’m not taking advantage of my flatmate.” He reaches for the phone, takes it off speaker and presses it to his ear instead, unable to stand the way her voice echoes through the lounge. “We figured something out and– It’s okay, okay? I’m happy.”

Dan blinks. A tear rolls down his cheek. It’s been so long since he’s said that and meant it.

His mum doesn’t say a word, not for so many seconds that Dan starts counting them in the same soft, soothing voice Phil uses to remind him to breathe.

“Okay,” she says. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I am.” He pauses, tilts his head back against the sofa. “But I need to go, mum. I hope your day’s okay.”

“I hope yours is, too, Dan,” she says. “Bye.”

The line goes dead. Dan wipes the tears from his eyes with the corner of the blanket, holding the soft fabric against his cheek. It doesn’t hurt, not beyond the subtle flare of discomfort at pressure against his skin. Dan hates that he’s learned to love things that simply don’t make his body feel more broken than it already is.

He reaches for his phone again, needing the distraction.

_Dan: help_

_Taylor: oh no do you hate your mother in law already_

A laugh bubbles, a little wet with tears, from his chest. He wonders if she’s having a good day, or if the humor is an attempt to pretend she is when distance and screens can hide the way her body so often seems weighed down.

_Dan: kath was lovely_

_Dan: i mean phil’s mum_

The three dots show up, and Dan rushes to type before Taylor can make a comment.

_Dan: shut up_

He’s grinning now, even as a tear dries sticky on the high of his cheekbone.

_Taylor: I’m glad you’re already on a first name basis_

_Taylor: and fine what do you need help with_

Dan glances around the room, to piles of video games and kitchen cupboards that were all filled long before Dan packed his uni life into a suitcase and brought it here.

_Dan: how do you get to know someone_

_Taylor: dan howell you know you’re my only friend why are you asking me_

He swallows, and doesn’t respond with _you’re the only actual friend I’ve had since I was fourteen._

\---

Dan’s playing Wii when Phil gets home.

The schedule’s grown familiar by now, afternoon spent sitting on the sofa, entertaining himself with things that demand little from his body. Phil stepping across the threshold sometime around 5:30, usually when Dan’s leaning back on the sofa and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. They never say a word, not until Phil’s let his backpack fall from his shoulders and stepped into the lounge, dropping to sit next to Dan.

He settles on the blanket. Dan loses his place in race, falling into second on the third lap.

“Finish your round,” says Phil.

Dan swallows, nodding dumbly. He turns back to the TV, and manages to snag back first place before the race ends. On screen, the cutscene of his car and the computer players that came in second and third racing towards the podium starts playing, and Dan tosses the Wii remote aside.

Phil smiles at him. “You still owe me Mario Kart tips.”

“Right,” says Dan. “Gotta pay my rent in whatever way I can.”

A quiet laugh bubbles from Phil’s chest, but something dim flickers in his eyes.

“How was work?” asks Dan. He picks the Wii remote back up, just to do something with his hands, and silences the incessant twinkling of his virtual trophy by opening the home menu.

Phil shrugs. “Fine, I guess,” he says. “A little boring.”

“Oh. What, um, do you actually do?”

A half smile cracks at the corner of Phil’s mouth. “Mostly splice clips together, add transitions and stuff. Sometimes I work with special effects, but they have someone else who specializes in that more.”

“Sounds fun,” says Dan. And it does, far more fun than law school ever was.

But Phil’s smile falters into something that looks too much like a frown. He shrugs one shoulder again, his weight seeming the sink back against the sofa. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I guess.”

Dan frowns, too. He doesn’t notice he’s fidgeting with the Wii remote in his hands until the home menu fades away and the Mario Kart music starts playing again. He smiles at the screen, pressing A so the trophy disappears and the menu comes back into view.

“Wanna play a round?” he asks.

Phil lingers on the sofa for a moment, gaze flicking over the length of Dan’s body. “You sure you don’t want to rest?”

“This is hardly exercise, Phil.”

He still hesitates, though, just for a moment, because Phil knows that there are some days when Dan’s body can’t even handle this. When the brightness of the TV screen and fast movements of Mario Kart have his eyes burning, and the remote in his hands makes his fingers ache.

Today, Phil does stand, snagging the second Wii remote from the coffee table and letting Dan set up a _VS_ race.

\---

They fall into the same routine the next day.

Phil gets home from work and stares a moment too long at how Dan’s sitting, at the shirt he’s wearing, at the remote in  his hand. He drops his backpack by the breakfast bar and situates himself on the sofa next to Dan, questions going unspoken as Phil reaches for the Wii remote and joins the next round.

Dan does give tips today. He teaches Phil how to drift better and how to master the beginning boost and tries to explain how to use bombs efficiently only to watch Phil blow himself up.

He does it again, in the third lap of Koopa Cape. Dan, already way ahead, watches Phil’s screen as his bomb explodes on him and sends him directly into a laser.

“That’s not fair!” says Phil.

Dan’s already laughing, though. He’s close enough to the end that he can finish with one hand and press the other to where pain bursts under his ribcage. Tears well in the corner of his eyes, and Phil reaches over to gently knock his Wii remote against Dan’s.

“Stop laughing at me,” Phil whines.

“Can’t.” A stab of pain burns between his ribs, and he tries to disguise his gasp with a quiet laugh. “It’s funny.”

Phil just growls, and finishes the race in fifth place with a grumble about how Dan must be giving him bad advice just so he can keep winning all the time.

He tosses his Wii remote aside afterwards. Their four races are done and the game plays the too-familiar final cutscene. Dan, of course, is at the top of the podium, and Phil manages to get third overall. They sink back into the sofa, the dip between cushions pressing their shoulders together.

Dan tries to focus on that instead of the lingering tightness in his ribcage.

It’s been there since last night, subtle given the ways his body usually experiences discomfort. Just an ache that made swallowing more difficult and his words go a little tense sometimes. But now, as he tries to smoothe a hand over his bones without Phil noticing, he sucks in a quiet breath and wills the sting to go away.

Phil glances at him, and Dan lets his hand fall away, forcing a smile.

The tightness gets worse. He swallows against the questions suddenly pressing against his ribs. Those have been incessant too, since the moment Phil’s parents hinted at being worried about finding a roommate, since they played family games on Phil’s old Playstation, since Phil said he liked boys.

“What other games do you like?” Dan settles upon.

Phil’s brows crease, just for a moment, before he shrugs one shoulder. “I’ll play most things, to be honest,” he says. “I like playing older games, I guess? Things that remind me of my childhood.”

“Like what?”

“Um, Bubble Bobble, I guess.” His cheeks go a little pink. “Katamari Damacy, stuff like that.”

Dan smiles. Phil’s fringe is covering  his eyes and his smile’s a little shy, and he looks younger suddenly, like the photos from his uni graduation that Kath has on display in the lounge.

“Do you have any we could play?”

Phil’s eyes go wide, but so does his smile, and though the pain doesn’t go away, Dan feels like he can breathe a little easier.

“I have Katamari for the PS2,” says Phil. “But we can play something else or keep playing Mario Kart or–” He clamps his mouth shut, gaze turning to the collection of video game consoles under the TV.

“Or?” says Dan.

Phil shrugs again, still not looking at Dan. “You could rest,” he says. “You’ve been doing a lot and I know the bus ride was tough on you, so if you– We don’t have to play anything.”

“Oh.” Dan sinks back against the cushions, turning to glance at where Phil’s hair falls over the side of his face. “I’m fine. I’m okay to play games.”

There’s a second’s hesitation before Phil stands. Dan watches as he unplugs the Wii and replaces it with a PS2 he must have had for ages. He finds the disk among a messy pile of plastic cases of games for different consoles and pops it in. Dan reaches forward to grab the controller Phil sets on the coffee table, sitting back and letting Phil be player one for once.

Phil’s eyes go bright when the game menu opens, and the pressure in Dan’s chest eases into something fluttery and warm that has him looking away.

“Do you wanna play alone or co-op?” asks Phil.

Dan shrugs. “You choose.”

Phil chooses co-op, and proceeds to explain the game with all the excitement of a child showing their favourite new toy to a friend. His eyes gleam happy and blue and Dan feels himself smiling, listening to the quiet ring of Katamari’s music and Phil’s voice.

He sucks in a slow breath. It hurts, but there’s something calm and warm in his chest that makes it easier to exhale without wincing.

It’s been years since Dan last got to know someone’s interests, and he can feel the rush of it, like adrenaline, making him sit up straighter as the game starts.

For the first little bit, Phil offers helpful tips and teases Dan about his superior Katamari knowledge. He makes a few balls jokes that have his cheeks going pink and questioning gaze drifting to Dan, who tries not to watch the way Phil sticks his tongue out between his teeth when he laughs.

And then they fall quiet, listening only the soft sounds of their giant sticky ball, as Phil calls it, picking up random objects around town.

It’s fun, and happy, and Dan doesn’t need to focus on the way his spine aches from sitting so upright, but he wants more. He glances at Phil and swallows. He wants to learn more.

“How’s Ian?” says Dan.

Phil actually jumps, and accidentally sends they’re ball rolling in the wrong direction. “He’s fine,” he says. “Just busy, I guess.”

Dan’s shoulders tense. He knows that’s not why Phil stopped spending time with his friend, and suddenly feels the knowledge settling in his gut. “You said he used to come over for movie nights, right?”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “Just, you know, sometimes.”

Their ball is back on track now. Dan watches it reach the goal even though the timer still says they have quite a bit of time left, and feels a smile curl at the corner of his mouth.

“You should invite him over this weekend,” he says. “I’d like to meet him.”

Phil glances at him. “Dan–”

“I’m fine,” he huffs, even as he sinks back against the cushions and tries to keep his attention focused on the game. “I could invite Taylor, if that would be okay. We could do a little get together, have snacks, some beer maybe, watch a movie or play games?”

Dan’s chest feels tight again. He tries to remember what his dorm mates did back at uni, how normal people socialize.

“I promise to wear a shirt,” he offers.

Phil laughs, but it sounds bitter. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself,” he mumbles.

“I’ll be _fine,_ ” says Dan.

He wants to be fine, at least. And pointedly not thinking of all the months he spent desperately trying to be fine, only to get sicker and sicker, Dan figures that must count for something.

“If you say so,” says Phil, another murmur Dan’s not sure he’s meant to hear. “I’ll see if he’s free Saturday, okay? And you can invite Taylor, of course.”

Dan nods, gaze still locked on the TV. Their ball, a little more clumsy now, is picking up people and buildings and just about everything else on the map as the timer gets closer to zero. They’ve long since met the goal for the level, but he still focuses like he needs these last few seconds to win.

Like he doesn’t want to see the worry etched across Phil’s face.

Phil bounces on the cushion when the countdown reaches zero. “That was amazing!” he says. His eyes are sparkling when he turns to Dan, even as something more serious lingers behind them. “We have like a psychic connection or something.”

Dan can’t help but smile back.

\---

They order pizza for dinner.

Dan almost pretends to be okay enough to eat at the breakfast bar, where he needs to support his own weight and his feet can’t be drawn up underneath him. He would have, if Phil hadn’t immediately brought the pizza box to the lounge and set it open on the coffee table before getting them each a plate.

They’ve played two more rounds of Katamari, a solo one each, and Phil’s still pouting about not being able to win his level when he takes his first bite.

“We can play some more afterwards,” says Dan. “And you can prove to me that you have top Katamari skills.”

Phil shakes his head. “No more video games.”

“Why?” says Dan, taking another bite.

Phil stares a moment too long and the pizza box, and Dan feels his stomach twist. The bite in his mouth grows heavy and bitter, and though it makes his throat hurt, he swallows it without chewing anymore.

“Phil?”

“I just think you should relax for a bit,” says Phil, words rushed and quiet. “We can watch something I just– For me, Dan?”

And, _shit,_ Dan’s heart clenches, his ribs going tight around his exhale. Phil’s looking at him now, letting Dan see the way worry shines in his eyes. The blanket is soft against the back of Dan’s neck, and he grows acutely aware of how bad it hurts where his skull meets his spine.

He’d like that, he thinks.

But he also thinks he’d do anything for Phil, if he looked at Dan like that.

_Shit._

“Okay,” he whispers.

Phil nods, his hair falling over his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, then takes another bite of pizza.

They finish dinner in silence, fidgeting on their respective cushions, not really looking at each other as they eat. Phil keeps adjusting his hair, and Dan finds himself running his fingers through his curls. He wishes he had the energy to straighten it again, just so he could hide behind a fringe, too.

Then Phil grabs their plates and puts the pizza box in the rubbish. He returns to the sofa with a shy smile.

“What do you wanna watch?” he asks.

Dan thinks it might be a stupid answer, but he says: “Buffy?”

He watches Phil laugh, his cheeks going pink again. “You’re really trying to expose how much of a nerd I am today, huh Howell?”

“Or trying to make sure we’re on the same level of nerdiness.”

Phil laughs, the kind that has his tongue sticking out between his teeth and his hands coming up to cover his mouth and Dan’s heart going warm.

“You sure you wanna watch Buffy? You might have to deal with me knowing most of it by heart,” says Phil.

Dan can picture it, Phil mouthing along to the episodes. Phil, sitting in the bedroom with the terrible green carpet and watching them when he was younger. “I’m sure,” he says. “Just set it up so we can watch it. Wait, can we watch it?”

“Yeah, I uh, have the boxset,” says Phil, blushing again. “I’ll just go get it.”

He does, and returns wearing pyjamas with muppets on them instead of his work clothes. He pops the first disk into the DVD player before returning to the sofa, dropping to sit down next to Dan.

Closer to Dan than he has for the past few days.

Before starting the episode, he reaches over, resting a hand on Dan’s knee. “Thank you,” he says, “for indulging my worrying about you.”

 _You don’t need to worry about me,_ Dan wants to say, except the sincerity in Phil’s voice has him speechless. It’s been so long, and Phil’s still too good, and Dan still doesn’t know how to deal with the way Phil’s kindness sweeps through his chest, comforting and aching and absolutely terrifying all at once.

He reaches down, resting his hand over Phil’s, curling his fingers into Phil’s palm, and hopes it’s enough.

Phil starts the first episode, and murmurs the opening lines so quietly Dan can’t distinguish his words. By the time the opening act has finished, the dip between the sofa cushions has him leaning closer to Dan, their hands still tangled, shoulders brushing together.

“You know when you asked if I had a thing for Sarah Michelle Gellar?”

Phil’s voice is so close, so low, that Dan sucks in a breath as he nods.

“I think I did, a bit,” he says. “But I think I also had a small thing for David Boreanaz.”

Dan laughs, a little too loud according to the jab of pain between his ribs. He winces, lets out a hiss that has Phil’s hand tightening around his.

“You okay?”

He nods. But Phil’s already letting go off his hand. Dan almost reaches for it again, except Phil’s leaning forward and pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder to make him do the same. He does, without question, pain still pressing into the gaps between his ribs, forcing his breath away.

Phil’s hand slips around his back and Dan almost chokes, letting out a splutter that has Phil going tense.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Dan nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. Phil’s hand reaches his waist, and tugs him a little closer until their legs are pressed together and Dan’s so close he could rest his head on Phil’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” says Phil.

On screen, something’s happening that Dan can’t focus on no matter how hard he tries. All he can think about is how warm Phil’s arm is against his back, how he splays a hand across Dan’s side, pressing gently against his ribs.

“You usually do this when it hurts, right?” he mumbles. “Massage it?”

Dan nods, realizing a moment too late that it has him pressing his head against Phil’s shoulder.

“Okay.” 

And he just stays like that, rubbing at the ache in Dan’s chest until he can breathe steady again, until the first episode is over. His hand lingers after that, his body still pressed against Dan’s, arm still looped around his waist, just _holding_ Dan there and Dan’s heart is _racing._

But he’s comfortable. Some of the pain has faded and Phil’s shoulder is a little bony, but at the perfect height for Dan to rest on, so he stays there.

From here, he can hear what Phil’s saying when he murmurs along to the show.

Between episode two and three, Phil says: “Are you annoyed by my nerdiness now?”

Dan shakes his head, the round of Phil’s shoulder pressing against his jaw. “I’ve decided we’re at the same nerdiness level,” he says, and then, because he wants Phil to know for some reason: “I, uh, was a moderator on the Lost wiki when I was younger.”

Phil chuckles, soft and happy, and Dan presses his face into the fabric of his t-shirt.

It smells like the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I mentioned it on tumblr, but I'll repeat it here: I'm probably going to not push myself too hard for an update schedule for this fic right now. Summer's having a really bad impact on my health, so writing's been more difficult. I promise I'm still dedicated to this story, it might just take a little longer to update. Thank you guys for understanding so far!


	18. Chapter 18

Dan keeps his promise to wear a shirt.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, porcelain digging into the bones of his ass as he stares at himself in the mirror. The t-shirt he threw on scoops low over his chest, showing off the jut of his collarbones. He pulled on his tightest pair of skinny jeans, even though squeeze of fabric around his legs hurts. He even managed to bend down to pull socks onto his feet.

It’s the most like himself he’s looked in a long time, he thinks, except for one thing.

He brings a hand up and runs it through his hair. He managed to shower, if sitting in the bathtub letting water beat down on your back is considered showering, so it’s wet and extra curly. One strand falls over his forehead, and Dan wraps it around his finger, frowning at his reflection.

It’s growing too long. He needs to get it cut but that requires leaving the house and sitting up for a while and holding his head steady and Dan’s not entirely sure he can manage all that right now.

He’s not sure he can manage to straighten it either. 

Dan’s wrists crack when he pushes himself off the edge of the tub. He tries to comb the curls back over his head so they look a little less like a mop, but they just tumble back over his cheeks.

Frustration wells behind his eyes, stinging like tears. Dan squeezes them shut, reminding himself that it’s nothing. It’s just hair. It never looks how he wants it to, anyway. It never really has.

But still, when he opens them again, his vision is distorted  by tears. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, turning away from his reflection to stomp out of room.

Phil’s standing there when he gets out, leaning against the wall opposite the toilet door as though he’d been waiting. He probably had been, Dan thinks. 

“You okay?” asks Phil.

Dan shrugs one shoulder. “Can you do me a favour?” he asks.

“Of course.”

Phil smiles, warm and genuine, so Dan doesn’t feel bad when he asks: “Can you straighten my hair for me?”

A moment later, he’s sitting on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath him so the denim of his jeans scrapes at the round of his knees. The armrest digs a bit into his spine, and he lets his head fall against the cushions as Phil plugs in his straightener and sets it on the coffee table to let it warm.

They don’t speak. Dan’s growing used to it, Phil’s quiet acceptance that sometimes Dan needs help. To the fact that he doesn’t need to explain or defend himself, not anymore.

“Okay, it’s warm enough,” says Phil. 

Dan sits up straighter. “Don’t burn me.”

“I won’t.”

Phil’s fingers carefully slide into his hair. He tugs a few knots free, slow and gentle, palm cradling the top of Dan’s head where dizziness tingles when his blood pressure drops. Dan leans back, feeling his hum before he hears it, as Phil’s thumb sweeps across where his hair is combed forward into his fringe.

“I like the curls,” says Phil, so quiet Dan’s not sure he’s meant to hear it. “They’re cute.”

Dan feels his cheeks go hot, flushing pink. He dips his head forward, and Phil’s palm drifts along his head, fingers carding through tangled strands of Dan’s hair, and affection seeps into his chest, comfortable,  _ nice.  _

He almost doesn’t want Phil to pull away to grab the straightener, but they have guests coming over. So when Phil’s hand falls away, he swallows back his protest.

On the coffee table, Dan’s phone vibrates.

He tilts his head back again, and lets Phil play with the hair at the base of his skull before he straightens the first little bit.

\---

Dan escapes to the bathroom again afterwards.

Phil’s straightener has cooled and he spent careful minutes adjusting the strands of Dan’s fringe so they fall perfectly over his forehead. Dan can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when he sees his reflection. Phil straightened it better than Dan’s been able to for a long time, slow and attentive so it falls perfectly over his ears, cuts nicely across his forehead.

Tears burn behind his eyes again, his heart racing and light and  _ happy.  _

Dan sucks in a breath, and he reaches for his phone before he can think too much about how gently Phil’s fingers had drifted across his skin. The texts he ignored light up the screen when he turns it on. 

_ Taylor: i can’t believe you’re making me socialize howell i became your friend to avoid exactly this _

_ Taylor: stop ignoring me _

_ Taylor: i just left you better not be naked when i get there _

_ Taylor: actually i’ve seen that before _

_ Taylor: phil better not be naked when i get there _

Dan laughs, a little wet with tears unshed. He swipes his thumb across the screen, types out a hasty reply.

_ Dan: im unfrinding you _

_ Taylor: good it’ll save me the hassle of socializing _

_ Dan: aren’t you driving _

_ Taylor: red light _

_ Dan: pretty sure that’s still illegal  _

_ Taylor: you don’t even drive _

He rolls his eyes, catching his reflection in the mirror. There’s a smile on his face, and his hair is normal. He’s dressed, and though his arms feel heavy and his back aches, he feels normal, just for a moment. 

Just for one night, he hopes.

_ Dan: you don’t need to come if you don’t want to _

It takes Taylor a moment to respond. A moment Dan spends adjusting his shirt and pulling his jeans up so they show a little less of his boxers. He reminds himself that he’s driving, that she probably hasn’t decided to go back to a dorm he knows she hates. 

Even on her worst days, Taylor usually pulls through for Dan. 

His phone vibrates on the countertop. 

_ Taylor: i want to _

_ Taylor: i’m happy for you  _

Dan lets out a shuddering breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

\---

Ian shows up first.

Phil bounces on his toes and fidgets as he goes to get the door, and returns with his head dipped, his crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Ian, this is Dan,” he says, voice a little too quiet. “Dan, Ian.”

He’s a lot like Phil, Dan notices. Ian’s hair is far shorter and brown, and he has wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His shoulders are a little more square, but his body’s still long and lanky. He looks a little more comfortable in his skin, in the space, than Phil does. 

And way more comfortable than Dan feels.

He pushes himself to stand, stepping forward to shake Ian’s hand.

“Hi,” says Dan, a little too high and far too awkward. “It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” says Ian. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Phil’s told me a lot about you.”

“Oh. He’s, uh, told me a lot about you, too.” Except Phil hasn’t. Dan’s too aware of that, of the fact that Phil’s been too busy dealing with Dan and his issues. “Sorry for intruding on your plans. I know you used to do these movie nights more often.”

Ian shrugs. “You’re not intruding,” he says, like it’s true. “I get that things have been, uh, difficult for you.”

His cheeks go a little pink then, and Dan watches Phil nudge Ian with his shoulder. It’s the first sign of awkwardness Ian’s shown since he walked through the door, and Dan’s stomach twists painfully tight.

It’s been years since Dan’s felt somewhat comfortable talking to people. Since he first realized that, no, most teenage boys don’t feel like they’re dying after gym class. That most boys focused on things other than how their body seemed to gradually be falling apart. That he was missing out on everything all the  _ normal  _ kids did.

Around that same time, people stopped knowing how to talk to him, too.

“It’s been fine,” says Dan. 

Over the years, he’s learned that most people want to hear that, not the truth.

But Ian offers him a smile that reminds Dan too much of Phil. “You don’t need to lie,” he says. “I might not– I’m not as good as Phil with stuff, but I get that it can’t be easy.”

Dan nods dumbly. His gaze cuts to Phil, whose smiling at them both like this is exactly what he wanted. Dan can’t help but smile too.

\---

Taylor gets there only a few minutes later.

Her hair is swept up in a bun today, sitting messy atop her head. She’s wearing an oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, and Dan recognizes the outfit from silent days spent sitting in his dorm room, when neither of them were quite okay enough to be people. 

He stands, pulls her into a hug. “You didn’t have to come,” he whispers, mumbling the words against the fabric of her hood.

“Told you I wanted to,” she whispers back.

Something heavy and nauseating settles in his stomach, anyway. He wants to ask her about therapy, about how classes have been going, about if she’s finally accepted that a science degree isn’t for her any more than a law degree was for him. But he pulls away and Phil’s already saying hello, reaching out to shake her hand.

Taylor’s smile doesn’t seem fake. The tightness in Dan’s chest loosens. 

It’s awkward for a moment, as Phil introduces Ian to Taylor and Dan introduces Taylor to Ian and none of them know each other quite well enough for it to flow naturally. Phil plays with his fringe and Dan plucks at the hem of his t-shirt and Taylor doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes when she shakes his hand, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind.

And then Phil’s ushering them into the lounge. His laugh comes out tight, nervous. Taylor stares at the floor. Ian offers Phil a smile that Dan’s pretty sure means more than he can decipher.

“So, how’d you guys meet?” asks Ian.

He’s looking at Dan, gaze flicking to Taylor. 

“At uni,” says Dan. “I was the awkward sick one and she–” He coughs, swallows. “We were the only introverts in our area. Uh, you guys?”

“He stole my first girlfriend.” It’s Phil this time. He’s dropped onto the arm rest next to Dan, and his hand falls to rest on Dan’s shoulder.

Taylor’s gaze flicks to where it landed, a quiet chuckle falling from her lips.

“You were with her for a  _ week, _ ” says Ian.

“ _ Still. _ ”

Ian rolls his eyes, looking away from Phil to look at Dan and Taylor instead. “He hated me for a while,” he says.

“You  _ stole _ my girlfriend.”

“Until he realized we actually had a lot in common,” Ian continues, as though Phil didn’t say a word. “Both film nerds, both pretty introverted, that kind of thing. And he went and started fancying someone else.”

Phil laughs, low and hearty. “It was college,” he says. “That’s what people do in college.”

“I missed that part of college,” says Dan.

Ian’s eyes crinkle, a little too amused. Taylor’s staring at her lap. Phil’s hand squeezes his shoulder, just tight enough to be pointed.

“The fancying blokes part?” he asks, voice a little quiet. 

“Oh.” The weight of it settles on Dan’s ribs, a question lingering in the air. Ian’s smiling at him like he doesn’t care what Dan says, and Taylor glances up from the pattern on her leggings. Phil squeezes his shoulder, gentle and comforting, and Dan knows he could say he missed that part too.

He did. He missed all of it, curled up in bed, the demands of his body too great to think about much else.

But he tilts his head up, catches the softness of Phil’s smile, the gleaming in his eyes. 

“Oh,” Dan repeats. “I, uh, saved that for uni.”

It’s not entirely true. Dan’s not thought about it enough to know it is, but it feels right, feels like fancying blokes is something he’s done in a distant sort of way that’s faded into a blur at the edge of his mind. 

And it feels like it’s right here, right now, pressing against his ribs.

Phil’s smile widens, his thumb rubbing a circle over where the neckline of Dan’s t shirt falls on his shoulder. Dan looks away, feeling his cheeks flushing pink when Taylor looks up just enough to grin at him.

\---

They order pizza for dinner and play Mario Kart with greasy fingers, sipping beer between races.

Phil and Ian move the coffee table towards the TV, and Phil builds a nest on the floor out of his pillows and duvet. They’re blue and green, Dan notices, a lot like the ones draped over his childhood bed. Taylor gets Dan’s duvet, the one he rarely uses because it often feels too heavy on his bones, and wraps herself in it. 

Ian almost beats Dan at Mario Kart. Taylor beats Phil.

The game ends when the pizza box is mostly empty, spare for the pepperoni Taylor picked off each of her slices. Dan comes in first. Phil pouts as he comes in fourth, just two points behind Taylor.

Phil’s sitting on the floor with Ian, and his head falls back to rest against the sofa, right next to where Dan’s ankles cross. His fringe falls to the side, flopping over the high of his cheekbone, and his bottom lip pokes out, eyes going wide. Dan doesn’t care enough about the cutscene he’s seen a thousand times to look away.

Phil drops his Wii remote, bringing his hand up to slide it between the sofa cushion and Dan’s leg, his thumb snagging where the fabric is snug around Dan’s ankle.

“Your Mario Kart tips aren’t working.”

Dan huffs out a laugh. “You’re not doing them right, is the real problem.”

Phil rolls his eyes, hand slipping away. Dan’s nerves tingle with its absence, a small buzz of discomfort. He swallows, turning to catch Taylor’s smile, watching Phil stand in his peripheral.

“You guys choose a movie,” he says. “I’m gonna make popcorn.”

Ian hums. “Popcorn’s his favourite,” he says, once Phil’s a few steps away.

Dan frowns. Phil hasn’t eaten popcorn at all since Dan’s moved in, unless he snacks on it before work. He swallows against the thought and feels the dull burn of it in his throat. The reminder that his being here is probably exactly why Phil hasn’t eaten popcorn in so long.

No movie nights with Ian to justify it, and a flatmate who can hardly swallow some days.

The microwave beeps in the kitchen. “Oh,” Dan hears himself whisper.

Taylor wraps herself tighter in his duvet, tugging the blanket up to her chin until she’s practically drowning in fabric. Ian’s staring at the TV, at the piles of plastic cases underneath it.

“You guys can choose the movie,” says Dan. “You’re the guests after all.”

They start talking then. Dan lets his head sink back and listens. He learns that Phil and Ian are horror movie fans. And that Taylor took film in secondary school. And that Phil used to make what Ian calls “these creepy videos” for uni assignments a few years ago. He didn’t know any of that before.

By the time Phil returns to the lounge, they’ve decided on  _ The Shining,  _ and Phil’s face absolutely lights up when he hears. He hands Ian one bowl of popcorn, telling him to set up the film, and sets the other in the space between Dan and Taylor. He goes back to get them each a second beer before dropping back onto the floor.

His hand wedges itself under Dan’s legs again, squeezes near where bone juts at his ankle.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Dan nods. His chest is tight, but it has been for days now, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s his body or something else that’s rebelling this time. 

Phil frowns. “Tell me if your sore, okay?”

He nods again, trying to force a smile just as Ian flicks off the lounge light, and the room goes dark.

\---

Ian, Phil and Taylor have all seen this film before.

Dan has not.

Anticipation has curled it’s way up his spine, prickling and painful and keeping his breath caught in his lungs. His toes, he realizes, are curled tight so they dig into the skin of his thigh and make his calves start to ache. He clutches the fleece of his blanket between his hands, holding it up to his chest, even though he refuses to  _ hide  _ from the film when everyone else is laughing. 

Something swirls at the very edge of his vision, but when Dan’s gaze darts towards it, there’s only black. 

He swallows back a huff. It’s stupid, he thinks. It’s a  _ film.  _

Except Dan’s never liked the dark, especially not since the first night he spent awake and restless with a spinning head and body so sore he couldn’t have stood if he tried. It’s best for his eyes some days, but he doesn’t  _ like  _ it.

Something flashes on screen, and he sucks in a harsh breath.

The muscles in his chest spasm. He swallows back a whimper, pressing his fist to the ache so his knuckles dig into the ridges between his bones. Ian’s laughing and Taylor glances at him, frowning, and Phil’s hand returns to the sofa, catches the narrow of Dan’s ankle.

He squeezes once. Dan exhales and hopes no one can hear how it shudders.

Phil must, though, because his head falls back against the sofa. The TV casts awkward shadows across his features. His hand drifts along Dan’s leg until his fingers are slipping under the fabric of his jeans, and he squeezes again.

He mouths something. It takes Dan a moment to realizes he’s being told to breathe.

So he does, like Taylor and Ian aren’t sitting right next to them. Dan presses his fist harder against his chest and imagines the way Phil’s fingertips would drift along his spine. Phil’s still mouthing something, probably numbers, and Dan watches until the air presses hard against his ribs.

Phil squeezes his leg again to tell him to exhale. 

Dan does, and does it all again, and again, and again until it doesn’t hurt anymore and his body sinks back against the sofa. Taylor’s not looking at him anymore. Dan’s not sure if Ian ever was. Phil turns back to the film slowly, but his fingers stay pressed against Dan’s skin. 

It happens again at the climax of the film. But that time Dan lurches back and his spine cracks and tears well in his eyes. Taylor stares and Ian notices and Phil sets the bowl of popcorn that’s migrated onto his lap aside so he can sit up straighter, turn to face Dan.

“I’m fine,” Dan mumbles. 

Ian keeps looking at him for a second before looking away. Taylor only looks away when something on screen catches her attention. Phil keeps staring, now rubbing up and down Dan’s leg as much as his skinny jeans will allow. 

The fabric is rough over his skin. He realizes only when his chest heaves around a breath that his shirt has started to burn. He takes a sip of his beer to distract himself. 

Shortly after that, the film ends. Phil still hasn’t looked back at the screen. 

Ian stands to flick the light back on. Taylor untangles herself from Dan’s duvet. Phil only stands when he seems to realize their guests are leaving. Dan’s knees crack and his ankles wobble under his weight when he forces himself to his feet.

He knows he’s limping as he walks to the door, can feel the unyielding tension in his left knee and the tightness of his lower back. Taylor hugs him so quick and gentle her fingers barely flit against his shoulders, he side brushing gently against his. 

She hugs Phil tighter, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Dan watches her whisper something against Phil’s shoulder, and something knots low in his stomach. Phil squeezes her tighter then, but over the top of her head, just next to her bun, his eyes cut to Dan.

Dan looks away. Ian’s standing in front of him, hands wedged in his pocket, one shoulder pressed against the wall. He smiles at Dan, then at Phil and Taylor, and then at Dan again.

“This was fun,” he says. 

He’s a little awkward, like Phil is, like Taylor is, like Dan is.

“Yeah,” he answers.

Ian’s mouth quirks into a sad sort of smile. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well. Next time we’ll choose a better movie, okay?” he says, like it’s nothing. “Phil loves Speed.”

“So do I,” blurts Dan. 

Ian chuckles. “You’re good for him, you know,” he says. His face goes serious, and he holds his hand out between them, his grip loose when Dan takes it.

_ He’s good for me too,  _ he wants to say, because Ian isn’t saying anything else. Dan’s mind flits to Phil’s parents again, the questions that have swirled in his stomach since they left Rawtenstall, Ian would know, he realizes, if they’ve been best friends since college.

He’d know a lot of things Dan doesn’t know.

Ian lets go of his hand, smiling again. He goes over to Phil, gives him the quick kind of hug that ends with them patting each other’s shoulders, before waving goodbye. He holds the door open for Taylor on the way out, lets it fall closed behind both of them. 

The knot at the base of Dan’s spine  _ throbs.  _

A whimper aches in his chest.

Phil’s arm is wrapped around him in an instant.

\---

Dan ends up back on the sofa, legs drawn up in front of him so he can flatten his chest against his thighs and let his spine stop holding his weight. His knee presses hard to the bottom of his chin, digging painfully into the bone of his jaw. His eyes are starting to burn, tired and teary and yet he keeps the locked on Phil.

The flat is weird. It feels empty, suddenly, with Taylor and Ian gone. The end credits of the film still light up the telly, but no sound filters through the lounge.

Phil bends down, picking up a pair of empty beer bottles from the floor. Dan can still feel the phantom burn of weak liquor in his throat.

It’s been a really long time since he’s had a drink.

He watches Phil set all the empty bottles on the counter by the sink. Over the course of the night, he must have pushed his fringe back into a messy quiff. His shirt’s a little twisted around his waist and one leg of his jeans has rolled up to his calf, probably as high as the narrow cuff can do.

Dan drags his chin over his own jeans. He wants them off now. They dig into his stomach, sitting like this. The fabric is too scratchy against his skin.

But he doesn’t move. 

Phil returns to the lounge. “I’ll be right back,” he mutters, leaning down to pick up his duvet and pillows up from the floor. The blanket folds over his arms, puffs up into his face.

He looks small, Dan thinks. His hair suits him that way. 

Something twists in Dan’s stomach. Phil returns from his bedroom. There’s a frown drawing at his cheeks, and though he can’t be sure, Dan thinks it might’ve been there since the first scare that had the muscles around his ribs spasming. Phil never does like seeing him in pain.

He drops onto the sofa next to Dan, already reaching out to coast a hand across Dan’s back.

His skin prickles. Dan’s not entirely sure it’s with pain.

“I’m sorry,” mumbles Phil.

That thing in his stomach grows tighter, and Dan lets his face press even harder against the bony jut of his knees. 

“This was my idea.” says Dan.

Phil shrugs. “I’m still sorry.”

His palm drifts along Dan’s back, fingers tripping over each ridge in Dan’s spine as though he’s counting them. It’s feather-light and warm and Dan has to turn and press his eyes to his knees to keep from crying. His chest feels empty and too full all at once, ribs shuddering when he tries to suck in a breath.

“Can I do anything to help?”

It takes Dan a moment to realize Phil’s talking about his pain. His chest aches. It feels like they’re always talking about his pain. 

“Dunno,” he mumbles. 

“Does rubbing it help your back too?”

Dan shrugs. He really doesn’t know. The angle’s too awkward so he can never massage the ache properly, not without hurting his wrist and shoulder and arm and neck and by then it’s not worth it to soothe his back. 

“Want me to try?” asks Phil.

“Sure.”

He doesn’t expect Phil to stand then, or for him to hold a hand out as though to help Dan to his feet.  “You should lay down,” says Phil, and Dan almost suggests he lay down on the sofa, but Phil’s eyes are gleaming as though he might cry and Dan’s curling his fingers into Phil’s palm.

They walk to Dan’s bedroom hand in hand, like this is normal. He wonders, fleetingly, if they had more to drink than a few beers. He feels drunk now, his mind distracted and buzzing and taking a moment too long to realize that laying down in bed means taking off his shirt and jeans and Phil’s already standing in the room next to him.

Dan doesn’t check to see if Phil’s looking as he peels his skinny jeans off his legs, or when he struggles to get his shirt over his head against the pain.

Phil must have looked away, he supposes, or he probably would have offered to help.

Dan settles onto the mattress slowly. Half his bed is covered in clothes he doesn’t have the energy to fold and his laptop and the DS he rarely uses anymore. Phil doesn’t seem to mind. He leaves his own shirt and jeans on and sits on the edge of the bed. 

It should be uncomfortable, Dan thinks. But he’s spent weeks wearing nothing but his pants while Phil was fully clothed. He’s gotten used to the soothing touch of Phil’s hand to his bare skin.

He’s  _ missed  _ it.

Phil’s fingers press to the base of Dan’s spine, where he knows the skin dimples. 

“This okay?” he asks. 

Dan nods. He presses his face into his pillow and tries not to focus on how strange this should be. Normal flatmates don’t do this. 

Normal people don’t need this.

He swallows. The pressure in his chest is back, spreading up until he can feel tears behind his eyes. Phil’s careful and sweet and Dan shouldn’t need this but every part of his body aches with gratitude as acutely as it always does with illness.

“I had fun tonight,” he says into the pillow. “We should do it again.”

Phil’s touch stutters over his spine. “You did?”

Dan hums. The pillow is starting to suffocate him, so he turns his head. He can see the bottle of sleeping pills on his nightstand, but his bones feel heavy and he’s not sure he’ll need them, for once.

“We should watch a different movie next time, not horror,” he says. “We can invite Taylor and Ian again. We could play more video games next time.”

“I lost all the video games,” says Phil.

He sounds like he’s pouting. Dan wishes he could see. But he’s lying mostly naked in his bed and Phil’s massage has turned more into something … softer and Dan’s heart lurches against his ribs, muscles spasming again. 

It must be visible, because Phil’s fingers coast along his side, drift over the base of his rib cage before trailing to his back again.

“We can do it again,” says Phil.

Dan hums. He doesn’t say another word until he falls asleep to the feeling of Phil’s fingers tracing gentle patterns against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, again, for the delay on updating. I was on vacation and laptop-less. thank you for reading and come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com).


	19. Chapter 19

Dan gasps before his mind can even process that he’s awake.

The breath grates down his throat so painfully he whines, and then swallows back a whimper when that hurts too. His knees are drawn up to his chest so tightly he can practically feel each rib pressing against his thigh. His arm is twisted backwards so his palm lies flat against his spine.

Beneath his palm, his muscles spasm.

He bites his pillow to keep from making a sound.

It takes a moment for the spasm to stop, leaving behind a dull ache and the freedom to process pain everywhere else. Like the thrum of a headache at the bridge of his nose, and burn in his ribs when he tries to take a steadying breath. A burst of pain erupts in his throat when he tries to swallow, and another starts at his hips, burning down the length of his legs.

Tears sting behind his eyes. It feels like they’re stabbing him when they fall.

Dan takes a moment to try to control his breathing. His back spasms again. He draws his hand away from his back to wrap an arm around his knees instead, hold them tight to his chest until his muscles spasm and give out under the pressure.

A nerve in his face seems to twinge.

Another tear goes rolling down his cheek.

He reaches for his phone, eyes squeezed shut and fingers shaking. The duvet drags across his arm, scratching at his skin. His phone is cold and presses too harshly against his palm when his fingers close around it. He has to focus to draw it closer to him, wincing at the ache that shoots up his arm as he does.

His wrist is too weak to hold his phone up, fingers shaking too much to type properly. 

_ Dan: Pill  _

A breath shudders past his ribs. His pillow’s damp. His mouth’s gone dry from biting into the cotton. The muscle of his jaw is tight, aching.

Everything’s aching.

He still can’t lift his arm. Still can’t open his eyes enough to glance at the too-bright light of his phone screen. Still can’t type properly.

_ Dan: help _

He waits, not moving, not breathing, but his phone doesn’t vibrate. He can imagine the way it would rattle his bones, send shockwaves from his hand to his shoulder, and Dan would be relieved if he wasn’t about to start sobbing, if he could  _ move.  _

His chest goes tight. He swallows against the lurch of his stomach, the painful lump wedged in his throat.

It takes him two hands to drag his phone to his face. He drops it on the pillow, cracking his eyes open because this isn’t familiar or automatic. Dan doesn’t make phone calls. He doesn’t want to. Air drifts over stinging skin and burns down his throat. 

His phone screen’s too bright. His body’s too weak.

Dan wraps his fingers around his wrist, tugs his arm upwards. His muscles are too tired, too weak, for this. Every part of him just wants to sink back into bed, go back to sleep, but agony buzzes under his skin and zips along his spine as he quivers with it as he opens his contacts.

Last time he did this, he was seventeen and living with his parents.

He calls Phil.

His eyes slide closed again as he waits. Yet another tear goes rolling down his cheek, feeling heavy against his skin. His arms are too weak to put the call on speaker, to drag the phone closer to his ear. His lungs feel too weak to speak. Everything feels weak.

Feels broken.

The phone rings once, twice, and then Dan loses count.

“Hullo?” 

Phil’s voice is deep, rumbly, tired. Dan would feel bad for waking him if he didn’t feel so terrible already.

“Phil?” he manages. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It doesn’t even sound like a voice, his throat is so dry and tight and pained. 

“Dan?”

He tries to say  _ help.  _ Tries to say  _ can you come here?  _ But what comes out is a sob that bleeds into a whine so loud he’s sure Phil would hear it without the phone call connecting them. His ribs spasm. His throat closes. Dan’s teeth catch the fabric of his pillowcase.

He doesn’t say a word.

Phil says: “I’ll be right there.”

\---

Dan’s only vaguely aware of Phil stepping into his room.

Then there’s a palm smoothing down his back, another dragging along the fabric of his duvet. Phil’s head is leaned down, hovering near his. Fingers come up and rub at the tense muscle of his jaw until he stops biting his pillow. A voice by his ear counts,  _ one, two, three, four,  _ until Dan manages to exhale.

“What do you need?”

Dan thinks he says: “Pills.”

Paracetamol is bitter on his tongue. He sips from a glass of water with a straw. Phil gives him another dose of sleeping meds Dan’s not entirely sure he’s due for, but he doesn’t bother to check the time.

He lets his body sink back against his bed. His hips give out so his legs fall away from his chest. His arms are too tired to move from where they’ve settled against his body. 

Pain remains, buzzing and screaming and aching under his skin, in his bones, but Dan doesn’t have the energy to deal with it.

He’s so  _ tired  _ of needing to deal with it.

“Can I do anything else?” asks Phil.

His fingers are smoothing over Dan’s head now, catching between his curls, lulling Dan to sleep and he feels like a child, except he never quite got this on nights when he’d crawl into his parent’s bed and cry into his mum’s chest.

“Stay?” Dan hears himself say.

Phil does.

\---

Dan’s back still hurts when he wakes up again.

So do his ribs, and his throat, and his head. The stabbing pain at the bridge of his nose has fizzled out along the high of his cheekbone, inside his eye socket. His fingers are curled tight around his duvet, shaking in their grip. A spot at the bottom of his left foot tingles uncomfortably.

His pillow presses too hard against the back of his neck when he rolls over, sending shots of pain down his spine and branching out across his shoulders.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

The mattress dips beneath him, and Dan’s eyes snap open to find Phil still sitting there. He’s wedged himself into the corner of the room, legs crossed in front of him, phone resting on his thigh. His hair is pushed up into a quiff and purple rims his eyes.

Dan feels like he probably looks the same, eyes swollen and body caving in on itself.

“Are you feeling better?” asks Phil, a frown drawing at the corners of his mouth.

Dan wishes he could reach up and wipe the worry from his face, wishes he could say yes and make it all seem okay. But his arms are pinned to the mattress by pain and fatigue and he whimpers when he tries to inhale and Phil’s brows furrow in concern.

“Yeah.” Dan’s voice cracks, gives out halfway through the word. 

Phil’s frown deepens. He looks like he could cry, but he just reaches over to rest a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You can have more paracetamol. You slept a long time.”

“How long?” Dan mouths, throat still tight.

“About six hours.”

_ Oh,  _ Dan wants to say. He manages half a hum, ignoring the burn that spreads across his tongue, before giving up. The tightness in his chest is back, bitterness settling heavy in his stomach, leaching through his body, pressing him deeper into the mattress.

He never sleeps this much.

Not unless he’s–

He swallows, whines, and Phil reaches over him to swipe a pill bottle from the nightstand.

Dan takes another dose of paracetamol. Phil settles back onto his corner of the mattress. Neither of them say a word.

\---

He spends Sunday in bed, curled up in his side, head pressed against his pillow. 

Phil curls up on the side of the bed Dan never touches, phone in hand and gaze tripping between it and Dan’s body. The room stays dark. His hair stays in a quiff and Dan’s goes curly again. Time ticks by in slow motion, a second for pulse of Dan’s headache, a minute for every spasm of his muscles, an hour for every adjustment of his body over a mattress that isn’t soft enough for his aching bones.

He takes more paracetamol than the bottle advises, two caplets too many because the pain wraps around his frame, squeezes sensitive skin until he’s crying again. 

His stomach burns, churns like he’s hungover from a couple of beers. His hands shake and eyes droop and sweat dots his brow only to be wiped away by Phil’s gentle hand.

Phil never says  _ I told you so.  _

Dan feels it reverberate in his chest anyway.

He takes another dose of sleeping meds when Phil tells him it’s late enough, unable to tell if the sun dipped below the horizon from his windowless bedroom. 

“Stay again tonight?” Dan asks before he falls asleep.

Phil’s holding his hand now, and Dan’s not sure when it happened but it pierces the buzzing white noise of pain enough to make him smile.

“Of course.”

\---

Dan wakes up on Monday to Phil’s fingers running through his hair. 

It’s gentle, familiar, and though his spine cracks when he stretches and his throat feels too dry to speak, something content flits through his sleep-hazy mind. He wishes he could reach back, take Phil’s hand in his and squeeze in unspoken thanks, but his fingers just twitch and send a shot of pain up to his elbow. 

“How are you feeling?” asks Phil.

Dan groans. 

Phil’s hand drifts along his head, curls at the back of his skull, pressing gently to get Dan to turn. He does, feeling the bumps in his pillow against his skin, the tug of muscle between his neck and shoulder. His eyes blink open, vision drifting out of focus and blurry around the edges, to catch Phil’s frown.

“I have to work today,” he says, poking his lip out into a pout. 

It’s then that Dan realizes the crisp collar of his button down, the way his fringe falls over his forehead. He has to blink to see Phil’s eyes, the fatigue that draws at them, the worry he’s seen too much over the last week. 

Over the entire time they’ve lived together.

“Oh,” says Dan, but barely any sound comes out. 

“Yeah,” says Phil. “I wish I could stay home with you.”

Dan considers trying to quip about how he’d be terrible company anyway, but pain keeps him quiet. It has him wishing Phil could stay, curled up in bed next to him, giving him medication and sips of lukewarm water, keeping him company without needing to speak.

He nods, just barely. 

“Do you want to move to the lounge before I leave?” says Phil. “I made you a smoothie, and set up your blanket and everything, if you want?”

Dan nods again.

So Phil bends down, and carefully slips his arm between Dan’s shoulders and the mattress. Fingers curl at Dan’s shoulder, digging in just tightly enough for a dull ache to erupt beneath them. He draws Dan upwards, careful and sweet, mumbling words Dan can’t understand but make his chest go warm.

When he was younger, his dad used to yank him out of bed with orders to get ready for school. The softness of Phil’s touch in comparison draws tears to Dan’s eyes. 

He tries to blink them away before they can fall. 

“You okay?” Phil whispers. 

Dan doesn’t nod this time. He just lifts a tired arm, drapes it over Phil’s shoulders, and turns so his feet hang off the edge of the bed. 

Phil’s lip quirks upwards, like he’s proud. 

And Dan probably should feel broken. He probably will, once Phil’s smile has faded from his mind and he’s left with nothing but reminders of how weak his body can be, of how it shatters at the slightest pressure. But for a moment, he smiles back. 

Dan lets Phil help him to the lounge, limping because his feet are still half asleep and his ankles feel like they could collapse under his weight. He sinks onto the sofa and the blanket Phil bought him, fleece so much softer against his skin than the duvet. There’s already a smoothie sitting on the coffee table, a collection of water bottles pressed into the corner of the sofa cushion. 

He lets his head fall back, forcing a smile to the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he mouths.

Phil smiles at him, bittersweet, worried. “I have to go now,” he whispers. 

But he doesn’t move, not for a long moment. His fingers tug at the hem of his shirt, gaze sweeping over Dan’s shoulders that feel too tense, his chest that feels like it might collapse if he dares to exhale.

He does, shuddering, when Phil reaches down to cradle Dan’s jaw between his hands, touch so gentle Dan’s worried he’s imagining it. 

Except he’s not. Because then Phil’s leaning over, dusting a kiss to the curls atop Dan’s head, and pulling away.

Phil leaves without another word. 

Dan feels his heart pounding against his ribs for long moments afterwards.

\---

Phil never comes home for lunch.

Today he does, all wide eyes that trip over every inch of Dan’s frames, drift around the space he occupies. Phil’s hair is messy, sticking up in all directions like he’s been running his fingers through it. Dan tries to imagine it, except he still barely knows anything about Phil’s job, not enough to picture anything.

Muscles spasm under his ribs. Dan presses his palm tight to his chest, nails digging into the skin, harsh enough to have tears welling in his eyes, imprinting semi-circles over his heart.

“Shit,” says Phil.

His hand lands on Dan’s shoulders, drifting over the back of his neck and the touch sends a shock blazing across his shoulders, blooming across the base of his skull. He hisses, eyes squeezing shut so he can’t see Phil’s face as he pulls away. He lets his fingers drop to Dan’s knee instead.

“Do you want me to count?”

Dan shakes his head, but it tugs and aches and he has to reach up to rub phantom knots from his muscles. He forces his mouth open, blows until dizziness swirls at the edges of his mind.

His head falls back against the sofa, hand drifting down his chest. When Dan opens his eyes, Phil’s sitting on the coffee table in front of him. 

He looks tiny, all of sudden, his eyes too wide and too blue, fringe pushed out of his face, hands fidgeting on his lap. His shoulders are rolled in towards his chest, like he wishes he could curl up in a ball, and guilt bursts within Dan’s at the sight. 

He looks like the day he found out Dan was sick.

“Why are you home?” 

Phil stares, blinking once, then twice. “I was– You–” His hands smoothe over his own knees. “I forgot something.”

Dan almost laughs at how transparent the lie is.

He wishes the pained parts of him would let him.

“Oh.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks upwards into a bitter sort of grimace as he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair. His hand twitches. Dan wonders if he wants to reach out and touch, massage away the pain like he did last night. If he wishes they could be spending another day sitting too close on the sofa playing video games, instead of doing this.

And then if the tightness in Dan’s own chest is caused by more that his body’s brokenness. 

Phil ends up standing, milling around the flat throughout his entire lunch break, taking care of Dan. He empties the half-full smoothie Dan barely drank because he was too sore and rearranges the untouched water bottles once, twice, three times. He brings Dan another dose of pain meds and brings the ice pack from the freezer to the lounge.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t speak. Dan doesn’t think Phil needs to, if the way his worried gaze flicks to catch Dan’s every wince means anything.

“Are you going to be okay?” asks Phil.

He’s standing closer to the door then, lingering between the lounge and the kitchen like he doesn’t want to leave.

Dan presses the ice pack harder to his chest as though he can numb the parts of him that wishes Phil would stay.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

Phil hesitates for a moment longer before turning around and leaving.

\---

_ Dan: hw r u _

His hand shakes as he sends the message, too-small text blurred by tears. The fingers of his right hand are digging painfully into the dips between his rib cage but the pain in his chest has grown too intense to draw his hand away. The whole of his body has grown too weak to do much of anything.

The brightness of his phone screen glares up at him from his thigh because his wrist is too unsteady to hold it.

Dan hisses when it vibrates, Taylor’s response gleaming blue from the screen and his leg over-sensitized to touch. He’s quivering too much to change the settings, so he fumbles as he puts it into do not disturb mode instead.

He has to blink the tears from his eyes to read.

_ Taylor: i’m fine _

_ Taylor: but you’re not _

_ Dan: how dd u kno _

His chest tightens again, cramped and agonizing.

“Fuck.”

He digs his hand into his side, swallowing against the rush of tears, the pressure aching behind his eyes. He should be used to it by now, he thinks. There’s spasms at the base of his spine and his throat’s gone dry from not drinking all day.

The second smoothie Phil made him sits, untouched. Dan can’t lean forward to bring it to him.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He glances at his phone again.

_ Taylor: you only type like that on bad days _

_ Taylor: where’s phil?? _

_ Dan: at wrk _

_ Taylor: oh. how bad is it? _

Dan’s head falls back against the sofa. His skin feels too tight over his face, like he’s tugging at it when he frowns. Dizziness wells at the base of his skull, spreads along his scalp and Dan squeezes his eyes shut to keep from seeing the bursts of darkness at his peripheral.

It fades after a moment. He keeps his head pressed to the cushion, rolling forward, to look back at his phone.

_ Dan; bad _

_ Dan: cant drnk _

The door clicks open. Dan’s gaze snaps to the clock too quickly, and another wave of dizziness comes and goes. It’s early for Phil to be home, but–

But maybe not, based on how worried he seemed earlier.

_ Taylor: oh no _

_ Taylor: i know you hate doctors but should you go to a&e _

“How are you feeling?” Phil calls out from the door. 

Dan swallows. He doesn’t yell out a response. He’s not even sure his body would let him.

_ Dan: ill see _

He switches his phone off, listening to the thud of Phil’s backpack hitting the floor, the rush of his footsteps. He doesn’t seem to take his shoes off before he reaches the lounge.

“Are you awake?”

Dan almost laughs. Because it’s familiar.  _ Too  _ familiar. But his throat is too tight for more than a breath.

“I’m awake,” he croaks. 

Phil comes around the edge of the sofa. The top button of his shirt’s undone and his hair’s spread awkwardly over the top of his head. He settles on the arm rest next to Dan, legs drawn up in front of him, and Dan wishes he could do the same.

Wishes the things that usually bring him comfort didn’t hurt today.

“Not feeling any better?” says Phil. His eyes flick to where Dan’s hand is still pressed to his ribs, to where Dan can feel sweat budding on his upper lip.

“No.”

“Do you want more meds?”

He’s standing before Dan can answer, grabbing the paracetamol from the coffee table and cracking open a water bottle. And though the meds have done nothing but take the edge off the pain, Dan lets Phil drop the tablets into his palm, pops them into his mouth even though bitterness erupts across his tongue.

The water burns when he takes a sip. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” asks Phil. 

Dan tries to shrug, but it feels too tense. “‘m getting dizzy,” he mumbles.

Phil frowns. “Your blood pressure?”

“Probably.”

Phil nods, almost numbly. He settles onto the sofa again, right next to Dan but not quite touching him, catching his gaze instead. Phil’s eyes have gone impossibly wide, brows hitched up so high Dan’s sure they would hide his fringe if this was a normal day. 

He looks like a little boy, as unsure as Dan feels. 

And his eyes are so, so blue.

“Taylor thinks I should go to A&E,” Dan mumbles, because the tightness in his chest spasms again. Words grate at this throat and there’s a lingering sting from the water, and Dan thinks he might agree with her.

“She does?” says Phil. “Do you want to go?”

Dan shrugs. Phil reaches up and combs his fingers through his hair, dragging his fringe back over his forehead, messy and out of place but covering one of his eyes.

“Maybe we should wait?” Phil suggests, not quite looking at Dan. “I mean, this happens sometimes, right? And it passes? Maybe it’ll pass this time.”

It won’t. The knowledge settles in Dan’s stomach just as he nods his agreement.

A smile quirks at the corner of Phil’s mouth.

Dan tries, and fails, to smile back.

\---

It lasts two hours. 

They wait for the paracetamol to kick in, but it never does.

Dan tries to drink the smoothie, and manages a few sips before his throat goes too tight to swallow anything else. The cough it causes reverberates along his ribs, aching all the way to his spine until he’s pressing his face against the blanket and letting it soak up his tears.

Phil’s hand settles on his knee, the comfort it offers outweighing the pain that buzzes under his skin at the touch.

It’s when Dan starts struggling to lift his head and the spots at the edges of his vision grow almost constant that Phil’s hand pulls away.

The leg he’s been bouncing since he last sat down stops.

He jumps to his feet.

“We’re going to A&E,” he says, voice wavering and unsure, like he’s waiting for Dan to argue. 

But Dan doesn’t. He manages a groan, pushing himself forward even as his wrists crack under the pressure. Phil makes a sound between a hiss and a word, reaching out to slip his hands under Dan’s arms.

“Stay sitting,” he says. “I’m gonna get you clothes.”

Dan does, because he’s not he has a choice, and watches as Phil darts into his bedroom. The door stays wide open, and in the silence of the flat, Dan could swear he hears the rustle of fabric as Phil digs through his clothes. He wonders how many pairs of skinny jeans Phil’s found.

A nerve in his thigh twinges at the thought. God, Dan hopes Phil doesn’t bring him jeans.

He doesn’t. He returns with a pair of joggers and a zip-up hoodie Dan hasn’t worn in months. His fringe is pushed back again, Dan notices, as Phil comes back to the sofa.

“Stay sitting,” he says again.

Phil drops onto his knees, back pressing against the coffee table so harshly Dan’s muscles seem to spasm in sympathy. He watches as Phil’s fingers wrap around his ankle, as he starts to tug the joggers up Dan’s legs. He’s gentle, careful, fingers drifting across Dan’s skin stinging, but not too much.

Dan could cry, and for the first time today, it wouldn’t be because of the pain. 

He carefully tugs the pants over his own waist, and manages to lean forward enough for Phil to tug his hoodie over his shoulders. 

Phil’s fingers are shaking too, Dan notices as he watches him do up the zipper.

They wait for a few more moments. Phil calls a cab. He empties his work backpack on the breakfast bar and shoves some water, pills, and Dan’s blanket in its contents’ place.

For the first time since he moved in, Dan realizes Phil brings his laptop to work.

“You ready?”

He blinks. Phil’s staring at him, clothes crooked, hair disheveled. He almost looks like he’s the sick one.

Dan doesn’t want to know what he looks like. 

He nods. Phil almost smiles. He reaches for Dan, wrapping his arms around Dan’s frame, holding him stable as Dan stands. 

His head spins, body falling forward, leaning too heavily on Phil. But Phil just wraps his arms around Dan’s waist, not too tight but  _ there _ , like a hug. One Dan wishes he could return, instead of just burying his face in Phil’s shoulder and willing the darkness to go away.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles.

Phil takes a deep breath, his nose pressed to the back of Dan’s head. “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thank you to obsessivelymoody for beta'ing, and come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com).


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies in advance for any a&e misinformation; I've only ever been to Canadian hospitals.

Phil’s arm is wrapped around Dan’s waist when they step into A&E. His fingers drift over the fabric of Dan’s hoodie, and press a little too hard to his skin when Phil draws him towards the registration desk. Dan squeezes his eyes shut against fluorescent hospital light until pain spasms in his forehead.

A&E isn’t too busy right now, but Dan’s chest still goes tight when he thinks about sitting and waiting in uncomfortable plastic chairs.

“Do you wanna sit?” 

Phil presses the words to the top of Dan’s head.

“No,” he responds.

Phil’s fingers drift along his side, curling at his hip to draw Dan towards the queue. There’s a man at the desk, hunched over so his elbows rest against the desk and his mouth is probably too close to the glass separating him from the nurse. The woman in front them has her hair thrown up messily as she bounces a screaming child on her hip.

Dan wishes he could reach up, pull his hood over his head and pretend he doesn’t look so ill. 

The man finishes registering and steps away from the desk, one hand wrapped in blood stained napkins, and Dan presses his face to Phil’s shoulder to ignore the sight. To ignore the mulling of strangers around him, hushed voices and screaming children and the way it all makes Dan’s insides twist.

He’s been to A&E a lot. He’s been to A&E far sicker than this, curled in on himself and sobbing into his knees as his mum registered for him because his legs couldn’t hold him up long enough to stand in a queue. 

But Dan’s an adult now and he steps up to the window with forced politeness and his flatmate pressed against his side. 

“Can I get your name, sir?” asks the woman behind the window. She’s wearing purple scrubs and her smile looks as fake as Dan’s feels.

“Daniel Howell.”

Phil’s fingers trail along his side as Dan answers her questions. He tells the nurse their address because Dan’s chest aches from talking and the threads of memory in his mind feel tangled from talking and he almost blurts the street his parents’ house is on.

Dan’s legs feel weak under him by the time the nurse finishes inputting his information. Phil draws him in, hugs him closer, and though it puts more pressure against Dan’s aching ribs, he sighs his relief against the round of Phil’s shoulder.

“You’ll be called to triage shortly,” she tells them.

Dan presses his face back against Phil’s shoulder and lets Phil say: “Okay, thank you.”

\---

Triage is an awkward series of questions in an uncomfortable chair.

There’s a clip on his finger and a thermometer in his ear and Phil standing behind him, gripping the back of Dan’s chair and tapping his toes. The nurse checks his vitals and then checks them again because his pulse is reading a little erratically and Dan telling her it always does that isn’t a good enough reason.

She wraps a cuff around his arm and presses his button and Dan bites his lip against the pain he knows will come. 

It does, enough to bring tears to his eyes and make his hand go numb and to have Phil releasing the chair to rub at his shoulders instead.

The nurse doesn’t mention it as she inputs the numbers into her computer.

“You’re blood pressure’s a little low,” she says.

“I know,” Dan says, a whisper. “It always is.”

She stares at him for a moment, then blinks her gaze back to her computer screen.

“So, what brings you into A&E today?”

Dan lets his smile collapse into a frown, sneaking a glance at the screen displaying his vitals. His pulse jumps from 92 to 108, but the nurse isn’t watching to see it.

“Chest pain, mainly,” he says. “I’m also pretty lightheaded and shaky. My whole body feels weak.”

She nods, typing. “How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

_ Five years _ . 

“The chest pain has been getting worse all week,” answers Dan. “The rest of it started today. It got really bad a few hours ago.”

She types more before turning to him with a smile. “Why didn’t you come in sooner?”

Dan forces himself not to wince. Phil’s hand drifts across his shoulder, fingers brushing along his collarbones and Dan wants to reach up and take his hand. He would, if a stranger wasn’t staring at him with a fake smile and the knowledge that Dan just told her Phil’s just his flatmate.

“I’ve had similar issues in the past,” he says, jaw tight. “They usually pass after a while without needing medical intervention.”

Phil squeezes his shoulder. Dan wonders if he knows how many times Dan’s answered these exact question.

“Okay,” says the nurse. She turns to type that, too. “Do you have any pre-existing health conditions?”

Dan’s eyes slip closed. A muscle in his chest spasms and he doesn’t bother to keep himself from reaching up, trying to smooth away the ache as the nurse watches. And doesn’t bother to keep himself from reaching up to take Phil’s hand in his, squeeze his fingers gently in a silent plea.

He forces his eyes back open, hoping the nurse doesn’t notice the sheen of tears blurring his vision.

“Depression.”

She just nods, and starts asking about medication and allergies.

By his shoulder, Phil squeezes his hand.

\---

The nurse told them it wouldn’t be long.

Dan didn’t believe her. He’s been to A&E enough time with idiopathic pain and tears in his eyes and weak limbs only to sit in the waiting room so long the pain dulled and the doctor he eventually saw stared at him like he was just some kid wasting his time with a dumb prank.

But it doesn’t take long today.

He’s been sitting for maybe fifteen minutes, pressed up against Phil’s side so his spine doesn’t need to feel the press of hard plastic against his back. 

They’re still holding hands and Phil’s fingers have threaded through his hair when a voice overhead calls Dan’s name.

The man with the bleeding hand glares. The woman, now trying to calm her crying child by rocking them back and forth, just stares as Phil helps Dan sit, then stand, then wraps his arm around Dan’s waist to lead him to the A&E door.

Dan doesn’t dare look at the people who have been waiting since before he showed up.

\---

A nurse leads him to a bed framed by curtains, sheets a little crooked and head propped up. He lets Dan drag himself onto it, leaving the cubicle with a murmur that he’ll be right back. Phil lingers awkwardly at the foot of the bed, hands wedged into his pockets.

When the nurse returns, he’s pushing a clucky machine on wheels with too many wires tangled around it.

“Can you unzip your jumper?” he asks.

Dan does, hands shaking, staring at Phil. He watches Phil’s gaze drop along with his zipper, trace over where Dan’s collar bones jut out beneath his skin, at where his ribs grow visible with every inhale. 

“I’m going to stick the electrodes to your chest now, okay?” says the nurse.

Dan nods. “Okay.”

Phil watches the nurse press each electrode to Dan’s chest, six white stickers dotting his ribcage. One on either side of his sternum and four more that seem to follow the arc of a bone, Dan knows, from every time he’s had this very test before. Phil’s gaze lingers, just for a moment, on each one.

His face has gone pale. He reaches out with one hand and grips the metal pole at the foot of the bed.

The nurse presses a wire to each electrode, the snap getting lost in the low mumble of A&E. Outside the room, two women are talking about lab results. There’s the clatter of wheels over tiles and ringing of a phone and someone talking about a patient in bed six and Dan swears he can hear the beat of his heart over all of it.

Phil finally looks up from Dan’s chest, catches his gaze with tears in his eyes. They gleam white in hospital light, and disappear when he reaches up to wipe them away.

“You look sick,” says Phil.

Dan doesn’t say  _ I am sick.  _

The nurse presses a button. The machine prints a graph. 

“It looks fine to me,” says the nurse, “but I’ll have the doctor look at it and send someone in to do some bloodwork.”

And then he leaves, tugging the machine out of the room with him.

\---

The next nurse gets Phil a stool so he doesn’t need to stand at the foot of Dan’s bed anymore. She situates it by Dan’s head with a friendly smile, awkwardly stepping around the small space and the cart full of supplies she brought with her.

“I just need to draw some blood, okay?” she says.

Dan nods, staring up at ceiling as she reaches for his arm. The elastic tourniquet snaps against his skin, sending tingles down his arm until his fingertips go numb and tears well in the corner of his eyes. He tries to blink them away, but they just roll down the sides of his face until they land on the pale blue hospital sheets.

Phil reaches over, smears the track one tear left with the tip of his thumb.

“It’ll just be a moment,” says the nurse.

There’s the chill of an alcohol swab against his skin and the tiny prick of a needle. Dan doesn’t watch, though he can see it all play out behind closed eyes. He can still remember the first time this happened, thirteen years old and holding his mum’s hand, crying because his head hurt so bad and the lights were too bright.

Phil’s hand drifts along the side of his face, fingers catching in Dan’s matted hair.

“You okay?” he asks. 

Something tugs at Dan’s arm. He can imagine the nurse pulling one vial away only to slot another one into place.

“Hurts,” he whispers.

Phil just hums and runs his fingers through Dan’s hair again. 

It doesn’t take long before the nurse is tugging the elastic from around Dan’s arm and pressing stickers to the vials she collected. Dan forces his eyes open to see the smile she directs at Phil, then at him.

“A doctor should be in to see you shortly,” she says. 

And then she leaves.

\---

Phil reaches for his hand, the one that’s still half-numb from the tourniquet, as soon as they’re alone. 

His thumb drifts across the bones of Dan’s hand, the bulge of a vein. Dan watches, the back and forth sweep of a gentle touch that makes his nerves protest, but the heavy weight of anxiety on his mind dissipate into something manageable, ignorable.

_ Thank you,  _ he almost says, but it doesn’t quite feel like enough.

Phil’s other hand comes up  to close around Dan’s elbow. His thumb presses against the cotton ball the nurse stuck to his skin, applies pressure as she instructed, as Dan can’t do himself.

“Does it hurt less now?” he asks.

Dan nods. His head sinks deeper into the pillow, and he brings his legs up because the press of the mattress against his legs makes his feet freeze. Phil smiles at him, the soft kind that’s unsure but caring and makes Dan wish everyone cared as much about doing the right thing as Phil does. 

Pain burns in his chest. It takes Dan a moment to realize that, behind the hurt, lies something warm, something that would be happy if circumstances were different.

“Can you do me a favour?” he asks. 

Phil nods.

“Tell me about yourself? Anything, I don’t care,” says Dan. “Just … distract me?”

“Okay,” says Phil.

He’s silent for a moment. His thumb has stilled against Dan’s hand. His breath seems to have stilled in his chest. 

Outside the room, there’s still the constant whir of the hospital. For the first time since they got there, Dan spares a second to think about the person on the other side of the curtain by his bed, and if they’re sitting there alone. He wonders if the little kid who was screaming was sick, and if they’ve made it out of the waiting room yet.

“I’m not good at talking about myself,” says Phil, “but, uh, have I ever told you about the video game I made when I was fourteen?”

Dan wishes he could laugh without agony, but all he manages is half a smile. “No,” he says. “Tell me about it?”

“I made it on RPG Maker,” says Phil. When Dan turns to look at him, he’s smiling, too. “It was called  _ The Mark of Oxin. _ ”

“Wow, a good name.”

Phil chuckles. “I thought so,” he says. “I think I still have it somewhere, probably on an old computer at my parents’ house. I should check next time I’m there.”

“If you do, can I play it?”

Another laugh. Dan’s chest burns even more.

“Sure,” says Phil. “As long as you promise not to judge fourteen-year-old me for anything in that game.”

“I doubt there would be much to judge fourteen-year-old Phil for.”

“I don’t know. If I remember correctly I programmed a–”

Dan squeezes his hand, maybe a little too tight, and Phil goes silent, eyes going wide.

“Don’t spoil me,” says Dan. “If there’s a possibility of me playing this, I don’t want any spoilers.”

“Oh.” Phil laughs, but it sounds a little forced, a little worried. “Right, you hate spoilers.”

Dan nods. “No spoilers.”

They’re quiet for another moment. Phil lets go of Dan’s elbow and reaches up to rest a hand on his head, again. His thumbs is back to tracing patterns against the back of Dan’s hand.

“Did anyone play it?” asks Dan. “When you made it?”

Phil laughs, the distant, happy kind that makes Dan smile again. “Yeah,” he says. “I invited all my friends over at the end of the summer and made them play it.”

Dan’s eyes slip closed again, and he pictures it, the blue and green bedroom he saw with tiny Phil sitting at a computer. The boy with mousy brown hair and a few friends all huddled around him, watching them play the game he made with the kind of bubbling excitement Phil sometimes radiates.

He feels himself smile, and opens his eyes to find Phil staring at him.

“That’s so nerdy and adorable,” says Dan.

Phil’s cheeks go pink. “Uh, I guess?”

“It is.” Dan squeezes his hand, gentle this time. “Tell me more?”

And Phil does.

\---

The doctor is a woman wearing blue scrubs and a scowl. She steps into the room and snags Dan’s chart from the foot of his bed, and stares for long, silent moments, at the sheets of paper there. Over the edge of the clipboard, Dan can see the spiky rise and fall of his ECG, looking perfectly normal.

It always looks perfectly normal.

Phil’s still holding his hand, chair pressed so close to the A&E bed that his knees press against the metal frame. If he leaned forward just a bit, they could share Dan’s pillow. 

He doesn’t move away when the doctor looks up, and Dan spares only a second’s thought to wondering what they look like to someone who probably doesn’t care enough to question it.

“How’s your pain now?” asks the doctor. 

Dan shrugs, feeling something tug between his ribs. “A six?”

She hums, and nods, and explains that she’s going to make sure the pain isn’t tender. Phil moves away when she reaches over and touch cold fingers to Dan’s chest. Her fingers press into the dips between his ribs, poking briefly at the spot beneath his sternum that takes his breath away. 

It’s familiar, like he’s practiced laying still while a doctor judges his pain by the gasps he lets out and the winces that pass across his face.

It’s been so many years, he thinks, that maybe he has.

The doctor asks a few more questions. The usual “how would you describe your pain,” which Dan never knows how to answer, the “have you experienced any arm or jaw pain,” that he knows is meant to check for cardiac problems, and has him stumbling over his words. 

Dan’s used to being asked how long he’s had this pain. And he’s used to the way a doctor’s certainty wavers when he explains it’s been years since there hasn’t been  _ something  _ uncomfortable in his chest.

“So this is a chronic problem?” she asks.

Phil’s hand drifts back onto the bed, fingers brushing over the back of Dan’s hand. 

“Yeah,” says Dan. “But it’s been really bad this last week.”

She nods, like she cares. 

 

“Well, for chronic problems you should see your general practitioner,” she says. “I think you’re dehydrated, as well, as we’ll give you some IV fluids and pain medication, okay?”

“Okay.”

The doctor leaves after informing him a nurse will be in shortly to administer the medication. The clipboard clinks as she sets it back in its spot at the foot of the bed. There’s no door to fall closed, but Dan could swear they’re both waiting for her to be far enough away before Phil’s hand finds his again.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Dan nods. 

His body feels heavy now, weighed with disappointment so familiar it’s hardly worth wondering what could have gone differently. In a few minutes, a nurse will push a clattering cart into the room. She’ll wrap another tourniquet around his arm, shove a needle into a vein that bulges at the inside of his wrist, and leave like that will solve any of his problems.

“Hurts,” he says, and pretends he’s talking about the lingering ache where the doctor pressed too harshly against his skin.

\---

“Pain meds are gonna make me loopy.”

The nurse has come and gone, and Phil’s now pressed so close to the bed he lets his temple rest against the edge of the mattress. 

Phil laughs, the quiet, warm kind. “Your hand’s freezing.”

“It’s the IV,” says Dan.

He nods, head so close Dan can feel the brush of Phil’s fringe against his cheek. 

“Does it hurt?” asks Phil.

Dan squeezes his hand. “No. ’M used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

Phil’s thumb drifts across the tape holding the IV against Dan’s wrist. He stares, like he’s never seen an IV before, and Dan wonders how often Phil’s been in hospitals, how much illness he’d seen before Dan showed up with every broken part of his body.

He almost asks, but then Phil’s reaches down, wraps his whole hand around Dan’s chilled fingers.

“So cold,” he says. “You’re whole arm is so cold.”

Dan chuckles. The pain meds must be starting to kick in, because his chest doesn’t hurt as much. “I know.”

“Do you want a blanket?” asks Phil.

He shakes his head, and Phil reaches up to close his other hand over Dan’s fingers, too, as though trying to warm him up. 

It works.

\---

It’s dark outside by the time they get home. 

There’s an uncomfortable cotton ball stuck to Dan’s wrist where his IV was removed, and the doctor’s instructions to see his G.P. ringing in his mind, and Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist and holding him close. Pain meds still have his mind hazy, his body feeling distant.

“You should get some sleep,” says Phil.

They’re back in the apartment now, where a blanket still covers the windows and another is still draped over the back of the sofa. It’s not that late. On a normal day, Dan would usually stay awake for awhile longer, procrastinating dealing with his insomnia by staring at screens. 

But he’s barely slept this week. At least not restfully, not with the pain. And he feels just seperated enough from his own body now to know that with a single dose of sleeping meds he’d easily fall into sleep that would actually do something.

“You should too,” he says. 

Phil squeezes his waist and nods without a word. He leads Dan to his bedroom, still dark and empty in a way that makes it feel foreign to be back. 

Hospitals have always made him feel that way, as though the rest of the world disappeared for a little while and being back in his space isn’t quite right. Like things should be more different than they actually are.

Dan draws his hands from his pockets, unwraps himself from the warm cocoon of hoodie and sweatpants he’s wrapped himself in. Phil tugs at the hood.

“You should take this off,” he says. “Don’t want it to hurt when you wake up.”

Dan nods, but it’s Phil that reaches around to undo the zipper. He’s careful as he wraps his hands around the fabric and draws it from over Dan’s shoulders, letting it fall to the ground without care.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks.

He should probably have something to drink, Dan thinks. Or maybe a quick bite to eat while the pain is dull enough that he could swallow without difficulty. But he reaches back to catch Phil’s hand instead.

“Stay with me?” he says, but it sounds needy, feels like he’s asking too much of a flatmate. “In case it gets bad again?”

“Oh,” says Phil. “Okay.”

He has to go get his pillow from his own bedroom because Dan only has one, but when he comes back he’s smiling. Dan takes his sleeping pill without a drink and crawls into bed first, curled up on his side. Phil slides in next to him.

They’ve cuddled on the sofa before, but it feels different when Phil reaches out and drapes his arm over Dan’s waist. There’s still a few inches of space between their bodies, but it’s so little Dan can feel the warmth of Phil’s breath against the back of his head, the tension in his frame that makes him wonder if this feels different to Phil, too. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” whispers Phil. “Even if it’s just for now.”

Dan smiles. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for another moment before Phil leans forward, His arm goes tense where it rests against Dan’s side and his breath is still, until his lips are dusting a soft kiss to the back of Dan’s head. 

“Goodnight,” says Phil.

Dan needs to swallow against the sudden pressure in his chest before he can respond: “Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	21. Chapter 21

Dan wakes up alone.

His head is squashed into his pillow, mouth hanging open with drool drying at the corner of his lips, hair matted atop his head. His body feels weighed down, heavy on the mattress. The burn in his chest has faded to a simmer that sparks when his ribs expand around an inhale. 

The air grates at his throat. So does the groan Dan lets out when it hurts. 

He manages to roll onto his back so he can orient himself. Phil’s pillow is still sitting there, bright and blue and such a contrast to the dreary grays covering the rest of Dan’s room. On the nightstand, there’s a bright yellow post-it scribbled with black that Dan’s fairly certain is a note.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He shifts towards the edge of the mattress, arms aching in their attempt to move his weight, until he’s sitting in front of Phil’s pillow. It hurts his shoulder, but he leans over and plucks the post-it from its spot. Phil’s messiest handwriting is scrawled across it in black sharpie.  

_ I had to go to work :( I called Taylor to make sure you’re okay so she should be here somewhere. I hope you’re feeling better. _

The last few words are tiny, wedged into the corner of the paper. Above that, there’s a smudge of ink that looks almost like it was meant to be a heart.

Dan tries to tell himself it’s nothing, that Phil just pressed the marker to the paper for a moment too long, but his smile still grows wider.

He stares at the note for a really long time.

\---

It takes Dan a while to drag himself out of bed.

His legs are still shaky under his weight and there’s a dull ache in the back of his neck that makes it hard to hold his head steady. He finds a pair of pyjama bottoms and struggles to pull them on so that he’s not in just his pants, but his chest still stings when it’s touched. 

Besides, Taylor’s seen him shirtless before.

Pressing one hand to the wall for support, he leaves his bedroom, taking slow, steady steps into the lounge. He sees Taylor sitting on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. Her hair’s thrown back into a high ponytail and she’s hunched over a book he can hardly see, a pen perched in one hand. 

She was supposed to be at uni today. Dan swallows against the guilt that comes with the realization.

He manages to stumble halfway to the sofa before she notices him. Her pen clatters against the table as she bounces to her feet, and before he can take another step, she’s dipping under his arm and draping it over her shoulder. 

“You could have, I don’t know, called out or something.”

Dan huffs out a laugh. Something twinges in his chest. “I was fine to walk, you know.”

“Phil said you almost fainted.”

“ _ Yesterday.  _ Then I got IV fluids and slept,” he says. They’ve reached the sofa by then, and Dan drops onto the cushions, lets his weight sink into the soft blanket laid over them. “You know my blood pressure does that sometimes, Tay. And then it recovers.”

Taylor shrugs. She drops back onto the floor without a word, and starts fidgeting with her pen. Dan counts how many times she clicks it.

There’s thirteen clicks before she speaks.

“Phil made it sound like you were dying or something,” she says. “I figured it was pretty bad.”

“Oh,” says Dan. “It wasn’t. That bad, I mean.” 

He turns his head against the sofa, presses his nose to the blanket Phil got him. When his eyes drift closed, it’s to the image of Phil’s face last night, eyes gleaming with tears, staring at Dan attached a machine by so many wires. It’s to the phantom feeling of Phil’s goodnight kiss dusting across his hair.

“He was worried?” he hears himself ask.

Taylor huffs. “That’s an understatement,” she says. “He didn’t want to leave. I’m pretty sure he was late to work, actually. He just kept going around the house making sure everything was okay. There’s a smoothie for you in the fridge, by the way.”

“He made me a smoothie?”

Taylor hums. There’s a grin drawing at the corners of her mouth, happiness reaching her eyes. She looks good. She looks healthy.

Healthier than she has since Dan’s known her, at least.

Dan smiles back at her. He lets his gaze drift to the textbook that lies open, and it drops.

“More bio?”

“Yeah,” says Taylor. She sets her pen down again, but her head stays dipped towards the book of notes Dan couldn’t even try to understand. “You know how I’m seeing a counselor?”

It’s a whisper, too shy for the girl who would barge into his dorm when he was half-naked to do her homework and keep him company.

Dan forces himself to nod. “Yeah.”

“Well she thinks I should switch courses,” says Taylor. “I don’t know if I’m gonna do it.”

“Oh.” Dan swallows. His chest feels tight again, locked with uncertainty. It shouldn’t be a surprise, he thinks. But Taylor never talked about it, not of her own volition.

Then again, there were a lot of things Taylor didn’t do for herself. Things she couldn’t do for herself.

“I think you should, if it would make you happy,” says Dan.

He might be imagining it, but he thinks he sees her shoulders sag with relief.

\---

They sit in silence for most of the day. Morning was already bleeding into afternoon when Dan woke up, and even now, with the day’s brightest sun peaking out from beneath the blanket curtain, he can’t muster energy to do much more than stare vaguely at the TV.

His vision goes out of focus every time there’s a flurry of movement on screen. Dan’s not even sure which movie it is that Taylor put on.

It’s not very good. At least, the bits his brain can pick up on aren’t very good.

He looks away. His neck feels weak and his head bobs a bit when he leans forward, but his gaze settles on Taylor. She’s still sitting on the floor, still reading her biology textbook.

Dan wonders how her brain can possibly be absorbing any of that.

“Taylor?”

She looks up, twisting so she’s facing him. Her eyes look a little hazy, but not nearly as much as they used to. Like maybe the prospect of leaving the sciences behind has reinvigorated her. 

Not that the prospect of dropping out had done anything of the sort for–

“Dan?”

He blinks. Taylor’s still staring at him, brows furrowed in concern.

“Geez,” she says. “I thought you were gonna faint on me.”

Dan frowns. “It really wasn’t that bad.”

It’s starting to sound petulant to his own ears, but then his mind flashes back to one of the times he laid in the hospital sobbing as his chest seemed to want to cave in. Lightheadedness, though it makes anxiety curl tight in his gut, is nothing in comparison. 

Taylor’s just staring at him now, and Dan wonders when he started feeling the need to explain himself to her. 

“Really,” he repeats. There’s a pause as fingers catch at the edge of the blanket and he mumbles: “Did Phil really seem  _ that  _ worried?”

Her eyes go a little somber at that, and her shoulders a little tense. Dan’s hand wraps tighter around the fleece, thumb drifting over tiny furs in the fabric. He reminds himself that Phil bought it for him, tried to make his new home comfortable in the tiny ways he knew how at the time, in all the ways he’s learning to help.

There’s still a smoothie in the fridge for him. One that Phil left there.

“Honestly?” says Taylor, and Dan nods. “I think he was catastrophizing.”

“Oh,” says Dan. His chest feels tight again, because Dan knows what that means. He’s been there. Sometimes, in the darkness of nights where his body aches too much for his mind to drift off to sleep, he still ends up there.

Taylor, he knows, has been there, too.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. He didn’t say it,” she says. “It just kinda seemed like he was scared that if he left you, he would, you know, lose you.”

A lump wells in Dan’s throat. He swallows against it. All he manages in response is another quiet: “Oh.”

Taylor stares at him for a long moment after that, then shrugs one shoulder and turns back to her book.

“I could be wrong,” she says. “I don’t know him all that well.”

Dan shakes his head. He draws the blanket around himself, just a corner of fleece pulled pitifully over his chest because he can’t be bothered to stand and free the fabric from under his weight. Taylor’s not watching to see his eyes slip closed.

She wasn’t there to see the look on Phil’s face when Dan was hooked up to the ECG.

“I think you’re right,” he says.

Taylor drops her pen, turning to look at him again. “You do?”

“Yeah,” says Dan. “I just– There’s one thing that bugged me.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Part of him doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to place Phil anywhere near the doubts that lurk in the back of Dan’s mind. But the memory of the ECG fades into one from before, from back at the flat, Dan’s head still spinning and chest aching and Phil trying to help.

“Well?”

Something’s stinging behind Dan’s eyes, and he hates that he knows exactly why.

“He didn’t wanna go to A&E,” he says. “Like he seemed to get that it was serious, but he wanted to wait and see and I don’t know it just reminded me of–”

He clamps his mouth shut, but Taylor knows. She knows too much, he thinks, about the little things that linger, heavy, on his shoulders, about the memories he can’t entirely erase.

“Your parents?”

It’s a whisper, one they both know is true. Dan nods anyway, guilt twisting painfully in his gut.

She reaches up, rests a hand on his knee. Her eyes have gone soft, her gaze tripping over where Dan’s clutching the blanket too tightly, like a child.

“He’s not like your parents,” says Taylor. “You know that.”

Dan nods, because he does. He knows it so much it hurts, more than the lingering pressure against his ribs and the ache blooming at the back of his head, to doubt it. 

Taylor squeezes his knee. “You okay?”

He’s not sure. But then again, Dan’s never sure when people ask him that.

He shrugs, and mumbles: “Yeah.”

\---

Dan falls asleep to the sound of a boring film and the turning pages of Taylor’s textbook.

He wakes up to the TV gone silent, different voices drifting past his ears. His mind’s still hazy with fatigue, every thought a little blurry around the edges, mingling with the lingering vividness of some dream about college he doesn’t particularly care about.

He cares about the voices much more.

“Dan and I were talking,” says one. Taylor, he realizes a second later than he probably should. She must not be sitting on the lounge floor anymore because she sounds farther away. 

He considers cracking his eyes open to check, but that takes effort. 

“He said you didn’t wanna go to A&E,” she continues. 

Dan’s stomach twists. If sleep wasn’t still rooted so heavily in his bones he would let them know he’s awake now just so she’d stop talking. In the same brilliance as a dream, Dan can picture Phil fidgeting, reaching up to comb his fringe out of his eyes like he always does. 

He wonders if Taylor would notice that, too.

“He said that?” says the other voice, and Dan already knew it would be Phil but something shudders down his spine at the confirmation. 

Taylor’s actually  _ telling  _ him about this.

There’s a hum, then silence. Dan wishes he could see. The dread has settled into a morbid curiosity now that he’s a little more awake, a little more aware, so he listens.

“Yeah,” says Phil. “I guess I was a little hesitant.”

“Hesitant?” says Taylor. “Or anxious?”

Dan has to count to keep his breath from catching. Four seconds to inhale and eight to exhale, once, twice, and a third time because his chest feels tight with knowledge he’s not supposed to have.

Knowledge he doesn’t have, he reminds himself. Phil still hasn’t responded. 

Dan thinks that might be answer enough.

“I don’t mean to assume,” says Taylor. “I just have a bit of experience with that stuff. You can tell me if I’m wrong.”

There’s more silence. Phil still isn’t saying anything and Dan wonders if he’s staring at Taylor all wide-eyed and nervous like Dan did when she first asked him if he was ill. Or if he’s staring at the table, twisting his hand and letting his fringe cover his eyes the way Dan knows Phil does.

“Does Dan know?”

His breath does catch this time. And then he doesn’t breathe, too scared either of them noticed.

It’s not a yes, but it’s definitely not a denial either.

They must not have. There’s the quiet scratch of the chair against the floor, and a steady tapping Dan thinks must be someone’s foot. One of them, probably Phil, takes a deep breath, and Dan’s reassured enough that he does the same, easing some of the ache burning between his ribs.

“Dan has enough to worry about,” says Phil. “Besides, it’s mostly a resolved issue.”

And that’s it, a confirmation that shudders painfully through Dan’s chest.

“You should tell him,” says Taylor. “He’d want to know.”

Dan swallows. It sounds loud to his own ears, but no one else seems to hear it. His fingers twitch by the blanket still draped over his chest. He wants to pull it even tighter around himself. 

He wants to wrap it around Phil and make sure he knows he can tell Dan things, too.

They don’t say another word after that.

Dan counts the seconds ticking by in his head until he thinks it’s been long enough that he can pretend to wake up.

\---

Taylor stays for dinner.

Phil orders a pizza that they share as Dan sips at another smoothie. Taylor tells him about possibly changing her course and Phil offers advice far better than Dan could ever come up with. They laugh about how terrible they are at science. Dan joins in on that.

His chest aches afterwards. He’s not entirely sure it’s from the laughter.

When the pizza box is mostly empty and leftovers are being shoved into the fridge, Taylor tells them she should be heading out. She shoves her books into a backpack Dan didn’t realize she’d brought and thanks them for the food and the smile on her face looks real, looks happy.

She hugs Dan goodbye, the distant kind that doesn’t put any pressure against his ribs. 

“Feel better,” she says. “And remember that he’s good for you.”

Dan watches her hug Phil afterwards, the tighter kind that has her standing on her toes instead of bending down. She says something against Phil’s shoulder, so quietly Dan can’t make out the words.

“Good luck with school,” Phil says in response.

Taylor laughs as she pulls away. “Thank you,” she says.

She looks like she means it.

Phil might be good for her, too, Dan thinks.

He wonders if either of them are good for Phil.

\---

They sit on the sofa again that night.

It’s not even a conscious thing anymore when Dan presses himself against Phil’s side, letting his head drop to rest on Phil’s shoulder. Fingers thread into his hair and rub gentle patterns against his head and Dan stares at the TV screen, at whatever show’s playing now, but his vision can’t focus.

Neither can his brain.

The blanket is draped over both of them now, tucked in against Dan’s side and Phil’s thigh. Beneath it, Dan reaches over to rest his hand on Phil’s knee.

There was a time when that was the only part of Dan that Phil would touch. It seems like so long ago now.

“Can I ask you something?”

Phil looks away from the screen. His eyes look a little hazy. A soft smile curls at the corner of his mouth and makes Dan’s chest go warm.

“Of course,” he says.

Dan squeezes his knee. “How are you?” he says. His voice feels thick in his throat and breaks into a whisper. “I feel like last night was new for you and I just– Yeah. How are you?”

He watches Phil’s brows furrow, feeling something tighten in his stomach at the sight. White tears flash into his mind, a pale face and uncertain frown and Phil’s fingers gripping the hospital bed like he was even more unsteady than Dan had felt. 

Dan wonders if his chest had ached, too. If something different had rooted itself between Phil’s ribs that night, took his breath the way pain stole Dan’s.

“I should be asking you that,” says Phil.

His fingers have gone still in Dan’s hair, his smile a little faded.

“I’m used to it, though,” says Dan. “You’re not, right? It was new for you?”

His hand tightens at the back of Dan’s neck. It sends a shot of pain down Dan’s spine, blooming across the back of his head, but he forces himself not to wince. He wants to hear what Phil has to say. He wants to listen, for once.

Phil deserves a friend that will listen, 

“Yeah, I guess it was new,” says Phil. “But that doesn’t matter–”

“It matters to me.”

Phil’s eyes go wide and Dan wants to says  _ of course it matters to me, you idiot, you’ve done more for me than anyone ever has _ , but it feels like too much. It all feels like too much, because Phil’s fingers move in his hair again so he’s cradling the back of Dan’s head.

Dan’s pretty sure he stops breathing.

But Phil just leans in closer and dusts a gentle kiss to Dan’s head. 

Again.

He pulls away like it’s nothing, and tugs Dan back against his chest like he belongs there. 

It feels like he does.

God, for the first time in so long it feels like he belongs somewhere. 

“It was new for me, okay?” says Phil. “And maybe a little scary. Hospitals aren’t exactly my strong suit, and I don’t– It’s scary to see someone you care about attached to machines like that, even if they’re used to it. But I’m fine. I’d go there again tonight if you needed to.”

He sucks in a deep breath when he stops talking. Dan’s pressed so close to him, he can see, can feel the small stutter of his ribs.

“You would?” he asks.

Phil huffs out a laugh that makes no noise, but rumbles through his chest, echoes in Dan’s. “Of course I would,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Maybe it’s supposed to be.

Except no one else has ever been willing to do it before.

“You needed it,” says Phil. “I wanna help you when you need things.”

Dan smiles. His hand is still on Phil’s knee and Phil’s is still in his hair. He watches Phil’s chest rise and fall with a breath and forces himself to mirror it, past the pressure in his chest that burns bright and brilliant and new.

He’s used to a lot of things.

This, Dan realizes, isn’t one of them.

Maybe because, this time, something about it feels good.

He turns his head, hides his face against Phil’s shoulder so he can’t see the TV or the curtains or the silhouette of his hand on Phil’s leg through the blanket they’re sharing.

“I wanna help you when you need things, too,” he mumbles, pressing the words against Phil’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. If you don't follow me on tumblr you probably don't know that I just started uni this month and it has been taking up a lot of my time & energy. But I hope this chapter made up for it a little bit. Thank you all for your understanding!


	22. Chapter 22

It takes a few days for his body to recover.

Dan spends them sitting on the sofa, head dipped back against the cushions, listening to the voices of fictional characters fill the room while Phil was at work. He’d have a blanket draped over his chest and a water bottle within arms reach, a bottle of paracetamol on the coffee table and a smoothie in the fridge.

The first day he’s home alone, he stares at the blanket curtains above the TV and tries to breathe through the spasms of his recovering chest muscles.

The next, he smoothes his hands over his ribs to rub the lingering aches away.

Phil comes home after work with quiet footsteps and worry drawing at the corners of his mouth. Dan listens for the door clicking closed and the thud of Phil’s backpack on the floor, smiling up at the ceiling as anticipation wells in his chest, presses painfully against the parts of him he’s trying to heal.

Part of him feels silly, like a little kid excited by a parent’s return. 

Then Phil settles on the armrest and reaches out to comb his fingers through Dan’s messy hair and smiles like Dan’s made his whole day better just by existing.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Kinda shit,” says Dan. “But better.”

It’s the third day now, Friday, and Phil grins at the words. He moves the bottle of paracetamol aside and drops from the armrest into the space next to Dan, a little squished, a little too close. Dan’s hip hurts at the pressure, but he doesn’t want to move away. 

Phil’s hand drifts from his head to his shoulder, fingertips rubbing gentle circles against Dan’s skin.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,” he says.

“At least your job’s kinda cool,” says Dan.

Phil nods, but his hand tightens around Dan’s shoulder for a moment and his gaze falls away and Dan thinks about all the things Phil hasn’t said, not to him. Of all the ways he so desperately wants to know Phil, too.

“Or do you not think it is?”

“Huh?” Phil looks up, offering a smile that lifts only one corner of his mouth. “It’s not that, not really.”

Dan nods. He adjusts himself on the sofa, finally, so the pressure on his hip lessens and he can lean in, rest part of his weight against Phil’s side. 

“But?” he says.

Phil shrugs, but he doesn’t look away. The sincerity in his eyes gleams bright and kind and with something that makes Dan’s whole body feel warm in a way that isn’t painful at all.

“I missed you,” he says. “And I was worried about you.”

Dan’s leans in further, pressing his head against Phil’s shoulder. “You don’t need to worry on me.”

“You almost fainted,” says Phil.

He shrugs. “I almost fainted the day we met, too.”

Phil laughs, a little bitter. “I don’t think you realize that saying you almost faint on a regular basis isn’t exactly reassuring,” he says. 

“Oh,” says Dan.

He swallows. 

There’s words he’s never said to anyone pressing against his ribs, welling in his throat. Things that feel like confessions but shouldn’t be whirring in his mind alongside memories of all the times he should have said  _ something  _ but just smiled and nodded instead.

Phil’s fingers drift down over his arm. His face is so close to Dan’s hair that he can feel each of Phil’s breaths against his head.

“Can I tell you something?” says Dan.

Phil lets out a breath Dan didn’t know he’d been holding. “Of course.”

He has to take a deep breath to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts, to rearrange the mess of things unsaid into something manageable.

“I still get scared when I get really lightheaded.”

It’s not what he meant to say, but it feels like a confession anyway.

Phil just holds him, and, after a moment, presses a gentle kiss to the top of Dan’s head.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he says. “It scares me too.”

Dan’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.

\---

He wakes up in an empty bed Saturday morning.

Or, well, afternoon, probably. He rolls onto his other side, ignoring the spasm in his ribs and dull ache between his hips to grab his phone. The screen is too bright in the darkness of his bedroom and burns his eyes, but Dan wants the distraction from the tightness in his chest. 

He misses it, the press of Phil’s body against his, arms wrapped around him, even though he only had it for a night.

The clock on his phone tells him it is, in fact, the afternoon.

Dan crawls out of bed slowly. His arms quiver as he tries to sit up. He has to steady himself against his nightstand as he pushes himself onto his feet. The floor is too hard against aching bones and his head still feels a little unsteady when he takes a step towards the door.

Phil’s already sitting on the sofa when Dan reaches the lounge. He’s wearing pyjamas. His hair’s pushed back into a quiff. He looks up and offers a smile.

Dan can’t help but smile back.

“How are you feeling?”

He settles onto the sofa carefully, so the cushions don’t press too harshly against his back and his legs don’t tingle from the pressure against them. 

“Okay, I guess,” he says. “Slept like shit, I think.”

Phil hums. He drapes an arm over the back of the sofa, open for Dan to shift closer. His knee bumps against Phil’s thigh. Phil’s hand rests on his shoulder.

“And I smell like hospital,” Dan mumbles.

Phil chuckles, barely a breath, like he wasn’t expecting Dan to say that. “Do you want to take a shower?” he asks. 

Dan frowns. “Can’t.”

He shifts closer, ignoring the ache the blooms against his kneecap. Part of him wonders how it doesn’t hurt Phil, the press of Dan’s bones against his skin. But it must not, because Phil just clutches tighter at his shoulder, draws Dan in until his head is resting on the round of Phil’s shoulder.

“Right,” he says, low and unsteady.

He still doesn’t know how to react to all of this. Dan feels it in his gut, tight and unpleasant, making him wish he could swallow the words back and not make Phil’s voice waver with concern. He must remember walking in on Dan lying on the bathroom floor, too dizzy to so much as lift his own head.

Dan just hums, because he doesn’t know what else to say, what might make things better.

Nothing makes it better. It’s been six years and nothing has ever made it better.

Phil hugs him closer, a little more gently, like the early days when he didn’t know what did and didn’t hurt Dan.

“Sorry I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

Dan’s responding laugh makes his chest burn.

\---

Phil brings him crisps for lunch. 

Dan’s throat and chest still ache, but he manages to swallow them. The salt makes some of the dizziness leeching across the back of his head fade, giving him a little bit more energy to hold his head up, to smile, to laugh. Phil’s sitting on the armrest, watching TV when he’s not watching Dan eat. 

He’s smiling, too.

Dan knows there’s some relief in knowing how to fix at least one of his problems. He used to cling to it, when he was younger and low blood pressure was all anyone thought he had.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“I’m glad you could eat them,” says Phil. He reaches over, but his hand lands on the cushion next to Dan’s head, a little awkward. “I was thinking–”

He doesn’t continue. Dan swallows against the tightness it brings to his chest.

“What?”

Phil dips his head, cheeks going a little pink, fingers clenching against the sofa cushion. “I just know that smelling like hospital isn’t fun and, like, I get that showering is hard for you.” His swipes his fringe to the side, and then shakes his head so it falls over his eyes again. “You can say no if it’s too much but–”

He falls silent again.

Dan’s whole body feels tense with what’s unspoken. His back aches with it. His jaw is clenched painfully. He reaches up and rests his hand over Phil’s, curling his fingers into his palm.

“You can tell me,” he says. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

Phil holds his hand, a little tighter than he usually would.

“I was just thinking that, if you really want to shower, I could help you.”

It’s a whisper. Phil’s still blushing, still holding Dan’s hand like he’s scared he’ll run away. 

“If you want,” he repeats. “I get it if it, like, oversteps boundaries or, I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t it overstep  _ your  _ boundaries?”

Dan’s whole body feels warm. He’s suddenly far too aware that he’s not wearing a shirt, that Phil’s fingers are pressed gently to his bare skin. And that Phil isn’t pulling away. Even as he’s offering to help Dan  _ shower,  _ he’s sitting next to him, pressed close, worrying about Dan’s boundaries.

It’s always been about Dan’s boundaries.

It still makes his head spin.

“No?” he says. “I mean, I’m not the one who would be taking a shower.”

Dan’s mouth falls open. “I–”

He tries not to think of it. Part of him has learned that comparing always makes his heart hurt. But his mind still drifts to memories of lying on the bathroom floor back home, wrapped up in a towel, crying into his arm because none of it made sense and no one would help.

“Forget I asked,” says Phil. “I just figured it might help, but it was–”

“Nice?” he says. “Too nice. You’re not my caregiver, Phil. Me showering isn’t your responsibility.”

It’s no one’s responsibility. 

No one’s but his own.

Phil frowns. “No, but I’m your friend.”

Dan’s chest goes tight. Friend, he thinks, feels so incredibly inadequate.

“You’re sure it’s not a problem?” he says, listening to his own voice crack.

Phil squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sure.”

\---

Dan sets the water temperature for himself, so it reaches that perfect point where the heat doesn’t make his nerves burn, but the cold doesn’t make little bursts of pain erupt across his skin. 

He pulls off his clothes while Phil waits outside the room. The tug of his pyjamas down his legs feels ominous, the lowering of his pants far too revealing. The mirror across from him reflects the image of his bare chest where ribs dent across his skin and his fingers skim phantom bruises part of him still wishes he could see.

This looks better, though. And there’s something about knowing Phil will see him, more of him than he usually does, that makes that more comforting than it usually is.

Dan swallows, looking away from his reflection. He wraps a towel around his waist, because that way he can still hide. 

That way, Phil won’t see parts of him before Dan wants him too.

The showering is pattering when he cracks the door open again, offers a shy smile around the edge, and steps aside to let Phil in. 

“You sure this is okay?”

It feels like it’s too late, standing in front of Phil in nothing but a towel. He tries not to remember that Phil’s seen him like this before. 

Dan didn’t choose it that time, though.

“I’m positive,” says Phil. He smiles. “I’m just not sure how to go about this. I’ve never done this before.”

He can’t help but smile back, even though it feels crooked. “Neither have I.”

“Right.” 

Phil shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks onto his heels. His cheeks have gone pink. His gaze drifts from Dan to the shower behind him. 

“You wanna get in?”

“Uh.” Dan swallows. “Sure.”

He holds the shower door to steady himself as he does, and tries really hard not to look a mess when he drops to sit at the bottom of the tub. The water pressure is lower there so the drops hitting the back of his neck don’t hurt quite as much. 

It’s still enough to have him wincing, tilting his head back to the water hits his hair instead.

Phil’s footsteps closer are audible. Dan swears he can feel each one echoing in his bones until Phil’s sitting down against the edge of the tub. The rail for the door can’t be comfortable.

Then again, Dan thinks, he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know what anything feels like to a normal person.

“How do you want to do this?” says Phil.

Dan swallows against the pressure in his chest. “I don’t know.”

\---

Phil’s hands end up lathered in Dan’s shampoo.

He sits there, silent, as Dan gets the rest of his hair wet, twisting against the aching swelling in his throat to make sure every strand gets hit with water. It feels weird to reach up and run his fingers through his hair, feels stupid when he needs a friend to do the rest for him.

Doing half the work usually means you can do all of it.

Unless you’re Dan.

Phil’s presses his hands gently against Dan’s head, trailing them awkwardly over the very top of his scalp. He sweeps every strand away from Dan’s face and ears, up into his careful lather. 

“Your neck is sensitive, right?” he says.

Dan’s shoulders go tense. He hums his response.

So Phil’s even more gentle when he reaches down, combs the hair from the back of Dan’s neck onto his head. His touch is so light, so tentative, it’s hard to think of him as the same person as the one who cuddles on the sofa with Dan as they watch TV. 

It feels like the barely-there kiss he’d brushed to Dan’s head when they came home from the hospital.

Dan’s stomach feels tight, burning, wishing Phil would do it again.

Phil takes his time rubbing the soap into Dan’s hair, against his scalp. His fingertips drag across Dan’s skin in a way he never manages to do himself, soft and unhurried and Dan could cry with it. 

He does, letting the tears get washed away by shower water. 

It feels like Phil  _ cares. _

It’s probably stupid, Dan thinks, that it hasn’t sunk in yet.

“Okay, tilt your head back and I’ll rinse it out.”

He does, but Phil’s hands don’t leave his head. He rinses the soap from Dan’s hair, wiping bubbles from his head.

“Do you want me to do your back, too?” he asks.

Something clenches in Dan’s chest. He wishes he could see the look on Phil’s face, but that would require turning his head, which Phil’s still holding, and risking getting water in his eyes. And risking this thing that’s growing between his ribs, starting to get painful, being shattered.

Or, maybe, getting worse.

“Sure,” he chokes. 

Phil hesitates, but eventually he reaches over and–

“Shit, sorry, my shirt’s getting wet.”

Dan laughs, even though it aches. Part of him worries about how much of a mess this might be making, with the door open where the stream comes down. The other part tries very hard not to follow that train of thought to its logical next step, getting help in the shower with the door closed.

Which would require Phil being in the shower.

With Dan.

He swallows, and turns to where Phil seems to have stopped moving to distract himself. 

It doesn’t work. 

It very much doesn’t work.

Phil’s shirt is clutched in one hand, leaving his chest bare, all pale skin and the slightest hint of hair and Dan has to bite his lip to keep his mouth from falling open. His eyes must stay wide, though, because Phil’s brows furrow in concern when he looks down.

“Is this okay?” he asks. “I figured it’d help me stay dry.”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Except it’s not fine. Or maybe it’s too fine.

Dan looks away, dipping his head so he’s staring at the drape of wet towel over his lap. There’s a stirring there. It’s not much, it never is. But it’s there and Phil’s still standing right behind him, dropping his shirt onto the floor, and Dan’s fairly certain he shouldn’t be thinking anything even remotely like this. 

He bites the inside of his cheek so hard it draws tears to his eyes.

Behind him, there’s the snap of a plastic bottle’s lid, and then Phil’s hands are settling carefully on Dan’s shoulders.

“Let me know if I hurt you, okay?” he says.

Dan nods.

Phil’s hands drift down along the length of his spine.

\---

His touch lingers for a little longer than is probably necessary. 

Dan doesn’t complain. His whole body is warm from the water, his nerves tingling with something edging not on pain, but on pleasure. He almost doesn’t want Phil to pull away at all, it happens so rarely that touch like this feels good for reasons beyond comfort.

This isn’t comforting. It’s different. It’s  _ more. _

Phil pulls away slowly, almost like he’s hesitating. 

“How’s your blood pressure?” he asks, voice low, almost lost in the rush of water in the shower.

“Okay,” says Dan. “I can, uh, do the rest.”

“Right, of course.” Phil moves away. Dan can practically feel it when he stands. “Want me to stay here for when you’re done?”

Dan glances back down. There’s still a heat in his stomach that means he should probably say no, probably put some distance between him and a shirtless Phil, but he doesn’t want to.

“Sure.”

He hears Phil walk to the other side of the room. The image is blurred, twisted in glass, when he looks up, but he can see Phil facing the opposite wall, hands over his eyes.

“I’m not looking!”

Dan giggles. The warmth is his chest, he realizes, is entirely unrelated to anything else his body’s doing. It’s familiar and fond and the very thing he wants to curl up with at night.

But for now, he has to shower. 

He reaches back to grab the body wash Phil left sitting at the bottom of the tub and squeezes some into his hand. His gaze drifts back to Phil, who’s still covering his eyes, as he moves the wet towel aside. He rubs some of the soap onto his thighs first, because it feels less awkward, before cleaning his crotch.

Dan tries not to touch his dick more than is strictly necessary. It gets sensitive and touch doesn’t always feel good and for as long as he can remember, there’s been an overwhelming, painful edge every time he does.

It’s there today, too. He’s not hard, thank  _ god,  _ but he could get there.

For the first time in a long time, part of him wants to.

He sneaks another glance at Phil, just enough to have guilt welling in his chest, and moves to washing the rest of his body.

His chest still hurts when he touches it. There’s a point at the inside of his knee that he can’t linger on. His back aches when he reaches down to clean his feet.

Dan’s head is spinning by the time he rinses off the last of the soap. He’s not entirely sure if it’s from the hot water or the rush of emotion that seems to be stealing his breath.

He reaches back, turns the water off, and awkwardly calls out: “Done.”

\---

Phil helps him step out of the tub.

He’s shaky and unsteady and his weight collapses forward, his head falling onto Phil’s shoulder. There’s a new, dry towel wrapped around his waist. Phil’s hand frame his ribcage as he leads Dan over to the toilet, helping him sit down on the closed lid.

“You okay?”

He sounds worried. Dan wishes he could make that go away.

“Probably just stayed in for a bit too long,” he says. “Hot water, well, you know.”

“Yeah,” says Phil.

He grabs a second towel for Dan’s hair, and just lets Dan sit there as he rubs the moisture away. He rubs in circles against Dan’s scalp, still so caring it makes Dan’s chest ache. His hair will go curly like this, he knows, but it’s better than the knots that were there earlier, better than smelling like hospital. 

Phil did that for him. 

It still feels like too much.

The towel falls away. Dan looks up to find Phil grinning at him. 

“Your hair looks cute like this,” he says. “It’s extra curly.”

“I know,” says Dan. There was a time when he would have complained about how awful it looks, when he used to try to straighten his hair every day until his body couldn’t handle it and the whole habit would fall away. 

Phil’s eyes look so bright, though, that the self-deprecating comments seem wholly out of place.

He reaches forward, and runs his fingers through Dan’s fringe.

“Are you feeling better? Besides the dizziness?”

Dan smiles. He wants to reach out, too, rest his hands on Phil’s waist and hold him there. It feels like something he could do, something he would do, if his mind didn’t feel quite so muddled.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”

“It’s really no problem,” says Phil. 

His fingers drift along the side of Dan’s head until he’s framing Dan’s face, tilting his head back as he leans forward. He brushes his nose against his hair, humming softly.

“You smell good.”

Dan’s heart forgets how to beat.

And then Phil’s leaning in just a little more, pressing another soft kiss to the top of Dan’s head. He pulls away quickly, cheeks gone pink again, head tipped forward so his fringe covers his eyes.

Dan really wishes he could see his eyes.

“I’ll leave you to get dressed, okay?” says Phil. “Call me if you need anything.”

He offers a smile and leaves the room.

Dan’s breath comes out on a stutter.

\---

They collapse onto the sofa again that afternoon.

Phil’s arm drapes over Dan’s shoulder, holding him close. His skin feels overheated from the shower. The blanket is too warm, but he can’t bring himself to pull away, let his blood pressure come back up and his heart rate calm, when Phil still wants him close.

He’s still not wearing a shirt.

Neither is Dan.

His head is on Phil’s shoulder again, resting just above the jut of his collarbone. Like this, he can hear the softest echo of Phil’s heartbeat. 

It’s a little quick, too.

“‘M tired,” Dan mumbles.

His whole body feels drained. Showering has always done that. But there’s more, a mental exhaustion that has him wanting to close his eyes and ignore the racing thoughts that echo in the recesses of his mind.

“You should rest,” says Phil. “You’re still recovering.”

Dan hums. He lets himself sink deeper into Phil’s arms.

Though he can still see the gleam of afternoon sunlight under their blanket curtains, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, I'm sorry for how long this took. university and the fic fest took up most of my writing time. I hope this chapter makes up for it, though. come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	23. Chapter 23

He wakes up to Phil’s heartbeat echoing in his ear.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, holding him close, and Phil’s chin rests against the top of his head. The TV in playing something, volume low so it’s barely a murmur in the room. Dan’s ribs ache from how he’s been twisted in his sleep. His hips hurt from the angle at which he’s pressed against Phil’s thigh.

Dan doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want to move.

His hand, he realizes, is resting on Phil’s stomach, so low his pinky finger brushes the waistband of his pyjamas. He can feel Phil’s spattering of chest hair under his cheek and the rise and fall of every breath Phil takes.

He’s so warm, pressed so close.

It makes Dan go dizzy.

He’s pretty sure it’s not because of his blood pressure, not this time.

Long moments pass before he shifts, the pressure against his joints growing too much. It’s just a little, just enough so his head settles against Phil’s shoulder instead of his collarbone, so his back is a little less twisted. Beneath him, Phil’s chest caves in with an exhale.

His hand drifts up to thread through the curls at the back of Dan’s head.

“Sleep okay?”

It’s a whisper, quieter than the telly.

Dan hums.

“Do you want something to eat?” says Phil.

Dan’s fingers skim across Phil’s middle, feeling parts of him he’s never been able to touch. The logical part of his mind reminds him that he should put something on his stomach, feel his body so it can heal a little quicker, give nutrients to the parts of him that need it.

He lets himself sink deeper into Phil’s arms, eyes drifting closed as Phil massages the back of his head.

“No,” he mumbles. “Don’t wanna move.”

Phil chuckles. Dan feels it rumble against his cheek.

“Neither do I,” he says.

\---

Bedtime comes when sunlight’s stopped shining under the curtains and Phil’s breath has grown slow.

They stopped snuggling after dinner. Dan’s spine doesn’t like being twisted so much, no matter how much he enjoys the warm press of Phil’s body against his, hearing the steadiness of a heartbeat in his ear. By the time their film ends, their thighs are pressed together under a blanket they share.

Phil’s arm is draped across the back of the sofa, his fingers combing through Dan’s hair.

He rolls his head back against the cushions, offering a smile. “We should get some sleep.”

Dan very much doesn’t want to go to his empty bed, snuggle up with a blanket just like this one and a cold pillow, hoping his meds will numb his brain enough that he can fall asleep. This is better. All of this, Phil’s hands and Phil’s smile and the brush of Phil’s leg against is, is so much better.

He smiles back anyway. “Probably.”

Phil doesn’t stand. He shifts closer until Dan’s knee rests on top of his thigh and his fingers are curled around the side of his head.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks. He taps against the side of Dan’s head once, twice. “Up here, I mean.”

His smile’s a little shy, a little crooked. He’s so close Dan could lean forward, could do things he hasn’t wanted to do in so long.

“Yeah,” he says, voice tight and choked. His chest feels tight, heavy with things he’s not sure how to make sense of. “Thank you.”

Phil’s smile softens into something warm, caring. “Any time.”

His fingers drift along the side of Dan’s head, up to tickle the shell of his ear. He pulls Dan close again, and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Bedtime,” he whispers.

Dan nods. Phil’s still so close, he can feel the warmth of every breath washing across his cheek.

They untangle themselves from the blanket, from each other, slowly. Phil wobbles he gets to his feet, giggles into the silence of the lounge. He reaches out, taking Dan’s hand in his, and helps drag him to his feet.

He wants to kiss Phil’s head, too. Wants to thank him for everything he’s done, let him feel the bursting warmth Dan feels in his chest when Phil’s fingers skim along his ribs before letting him go.

“Goodnight,” is all he says.

Phil grins back at him. “Goodnight.”

And Dan crawls into bed, wraps himself in his duvet, snuggles up to his pillow, and pretends he doesn’t wish it was Phil instead.

\---

Dan doesn’t fall asleep.

He waits until a twinge between his ribs has him rolling onto his back and his phone tells him hours have passed. His meds have swirled through his system with a dizzying rush and not much else, besides yawns that made tears sting his eyes and an ache burst in his jaw.

The flat is dark when he drags himself out of bed. Fatigue has his mind hazy, joints shaking and weak. He wraps his blanket, the fluffy one, around his shoulders and clings to it.

He stumbles over own feet as he walks into the kitchen, catching himself on the fridge handle.

An ache blooms across his palm, shoots up his arm, just enough to bring tears to his eyes.

It should be nothing, he thinks, but fatigue always makes the pain worse.

He can feel it wrapped around every part of his body now, weighing him down. He wants to collapse onto the floor, but the tile would hurt too much against the jut of his bones. His breath would come in achy bursts, lying so flat on the ground.

Dan squeezes his eyes shut, fumbling in the dark to open the freezer. He grabs the ice pack Phil bought for him and presses it to his cheek, where there’s no swelling but so much pain.

The cold makes him hiss.

He presses it harder against his jaw, knowing relief will come in a moment.

Still clutching his blanket around his shoulders, he stumbles back to the hallway. His hands aren’t free to check what’s in his path anymore. He runs into the breakfast bar, the corner of the countertop pressing harshly into his hip so he groans under his breath.

A bruise will bloom there overnight.

Dan presses the ice pack there, just for a moment, just long enough to soothe some of the pain.

He reaches the hallway. It feels like long minutes have passed. There’s the faintest sound of traffic from outside and when his eyes fall closed, everything seems to slow. He can barely drag them open against the burn, but fatigue still doesn’t draw at his find.

Exhaustion, he’s long-since learned, isn’t the same as being sleepy.

The ice pack is pressed against his jaw, the blanket tight around his shoulders. He hesitates by his bedroom door. The idea of his bed, of lying there for more long hours, wrists too weak to hold his phone and body to pained to ignore, makes his stomach clench tight.

He would have, back at uni, back at home.

But he doesn’t want to.

Dan knocks on Phil’s door instead.

\---

He feels like a little kid again, standing in the hallway.

Like he did before he realized being sick inconveniences those around you, before he learned to soothe himself by curling up on his side and letting his pillow soak up his tears.

His toes curl against the hardwood floor. Part of him wishes the blanket was bigger, that he could drown in it like he did in his duvet when he was younger, smaller. Maybe that way it would feel less stupid to be standing outside someone else’s bedroom, waiting for someone to help him make the pain go away.

Phil doesn’t answer.

Dan’s chest goes tight. He turns back to his own bedroom door, eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to see its frame, but he doesn’t move towards it.

He doesn’t want to.

His hand lands on the doorknob, his blanket falling loose over his shoulders as he lets it go. Part of him thinks he might regret it. He used to, sometimes, when he was younger and would poke his head into his mum’s room to tell her his chest hurt.

 _It hurts every day, bear,_ she’d say. _Go back to bed._

Dan swallows. Maybe he should go back to bed.

He turns the doorknob.

“Phil?”

He pokes his head into the room, clinging his blanket to his shoulders again. The ice pack against his jaw makes talking feel weird. It moves when he speaks and pain stings in his wrist because of it.

“Phil?”

He blinks. Phil’s room has a window, and the faintest glimmer of city light shines from under his blinds. It’s just enough for Dan to see the way his face is squished against his pillow, to notice that his fringe doesn’t cover his eyes when he sleeps.

Dan shouldn’t wake him.

But he’s selfish enough to step deeper into the room.

“Phil?”

There’s a hum. The silhouette of Phil’s duvet twitches. He reaches up and rubs at one eye with his fist.

“Dan?”

He swallows. Now, he wants to run away, curl up in his own bed and let Phil fall back asleep. He probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning, wouldn’t know that Dan still doesn’t entirely know how to cope with all the ways his body doesn’t work.

His parents tried to teach him.

Dan didn’t want to learn.

Part of him still doesn’t.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. It sounds whiny. He feels like a little boy again.

Phil’s fingers comb through his hair, pushed back into a quiff. He rolls onto his back. Dan’s pretty sure he hasn’t opened his eyes when the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile.

He probably means to pat the bed, but his fingers just twitch against the mattress.

“C’mere.”

\---

Phil’s bed is warm.

His whole bedroom feels warmer, more homey than Dan’s does. There’s decorations on the wall and plushies on his dresser and, though Dan would never choose it, the colours make him feel a little more okay.

He lies down on the pillow Phil was just snuggled up with.

Phil cuddles him now, instead.

“Are your sore?” he asks.

One hand is wedged under Dan’s neck. It should hurt. It probably will, eventually, but right now Dan’s comfortable and happy and wouldn’t ask Phil to move even if it did.

His other hand comes up to brush against the ice pack Dan still has pressed against his jaw.

“Yawned too much,” he mumbles. “Hurt.”

Phil frowns. Dan can feel it against his shoulder. “Still couldn’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

Dan’s chest goes tight.

Phil’s half asleep. His face is pressed against Dan’s shoulder, breaths coming slow and even. He’s pressed his hand against Dan’s stomach again, rubbing little circles over the space between his ribs. It will only take a few moments, Dan thinks, until his movements slow, until he’s just holding Dan as he sleeps.

Phil wouldn’t ask that if he was awake. He’d know. He’d comb his fingers through Dan’s hair and dust a kiss to his skin and offer the quiet understanding Dan’s grown used to.

But he’s not awake, not fully.

Dan doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched until pain blooms across the side of his face.

“Don’t know.”

Part of him expects Phil to be too sleepy to understand, but his arm tightens around Dan’s waist.

“Wish you did,” he mumbles, the words pressed against Dan’s shoulder. “Deserve to know.”

Dan feels the words, a wash of too much and everything he needed at once, tingling across his skin, aching in his chest, stinging behind his eyes. Tears well. He presses them into Phil’s pillow, sucking in a shuddering breath that smells like Phil, like soft blankets and sofa snuggles.

“You think so?” he whispers.

Phil doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

He dips his head. Dan’s pretty sure the dust of lips against his shoulder isn’t meant to be a kiss, but it feels like one.

And that’s enough.

\---

He sleeps.

Phil’s mattress is softer against his bones. His touch eases the thoughts racing at the edges of Dan’s mind just long enough for his eyes to drift closed.

When he wakes up again, he’s too hot. His skin burns. The duvet is too heavy. It feels like it’s sticking to him, but Dan doesn’t have the energy to untangle himself from it, from Phil.

He doesn’t want to.

There’s a pounding behind his eyes. It’s still dark in Phil’s bedroom.

Dan knows it’s not enough sleep.

He can already feel fatigue leeching across his body, squeezing his muscles, throbbing in his bones. It’ll be a bad day, one spent in a dark room with a blanket and paracetamol. With Phil sitting at the opposite end of the couch with his DS and a concerned gaze that’ll drift over to Dan more often than either of them will mention.

The hours will go by slowly.

Phil’s arm is still draped across Dan’s waist.

The blanket is still too hot.

Dan doesn’t move away.

He’s too tired. Too warm. Too content, being held so close.

He missed this. He already knew he did, but the press of Phil’s chest against his back, the splay of his hand over Dan’s stomach, the way his breath rushes across Dan’s skin is ... good. He wishes he could fall asleep again. Or that Phil was awake.

It’s selfish. Dan knows it is, but he wants the company.

Being sick is lonely.

He presses his hand over Phil’s, curling his fingers into the gaps and squeezing gently. It’s probably unrelated that Phil lets out a sigh in his sleep, pressing his forehead a little tighter to Dan’s shoulder, but Dan pretends it isn’t. His heart beats a little quicker that way, giddier.

“Phil?” he mumbles.

There’s a groan. Phil squeezes him tighter.

“Phil?” he says again. He reaches back, combing his fingers through Phil’s hair. “Phil? Can you wake up?”

He does, slowly. His hand drifts higher, over the ridges of Dan’s ribs. The other twitches, probably gone numb from the press of Dan’s head against his arm. He groans again, rolling back just a little and Dan almost regrets waking him. He doesn’t want space.

He doesn’t even know what he wants.

“‘S early,” says Phil.

Dan swallows. He feels stupid. Again. “I know.”

He presses his face into the pillow. Phil’s arm, still draped across his waist, is the only thing that keeps him from curling into a ball, hiding away and pretending he didn’t say anything. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to see the silhouette of his parents in their bed, telling him they need sleep, in the darkness it brings.

Phil drags his hand out from under his neck. Instead of pulling away, though, he combs his fingers through the knots at the back of Dan’s head.

“Still can’t sleep?”

He’s almost surprised Phil remembers.

It’s almost enough to make him cry.

Fatigue does that, makes him feel everything just a little more acutely.

Dan nods into the pillow, humming even though it hurts, the noise getting lost in the fabric so he’s not entirely sure Phil hears it. The hand on his head drifts down, sweeping across the baby hairs at his nape and back up again, through curls cleaner than they’ve been in so long.

“Come here,” says Phil.

He wedges his hand under Dan’s body again, drawing him in gently until Dan’s rolling onto his back, head lolling to the side. Phil’s eyes are wide open, like he’s overtired, trying to stay awake. There’s a slight smile quirking at one corner of his mouth. His other arm is spread open, like he wants a hug.

Dan’s heart bounds in his chest.

He lets Phil pull him closer, so Dan’s lying against him. It puts pressure against his ribs, the kind that will ache in a while, make it sting when he breathes too deeply, but then Phil’s fingers are settling against the dip of Dan’s waist, his lips brushing against the top of his head, and Dan doesn’t care.

Phil’s heartbeat is echoing in his ear.

He wonders if it’s the proximity that has it going so fast.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” says Phil. His breath against clean, untangled hair almost tickles.

“Yeah,” says Dan. “‘M so tired.”

Phil’s fingers drift up along his spine. “Wish you could sleep.”

Dan just smiles, the slight, bittersweet kind.

He lets Phil hold him, listening to the quiet puffs of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. His fingers trace patterns between Dan’s shoulder blades, so light it almost stings, so gentle Dan could never ask him to stop.

“Phil?”

The response is a hum, low and pressed to the top of Dan’s head.

“Can I ask you something?”

His fingers circle the bumps of Dan’s spine against his skin. “Of course.”

He swallows, nestling himself deeper into Phil’s arms. Phil holds him tighter at that, like he can tell that Dan feels like he might split apart. Maybe he can. He always seems to know when Dan feels like he’s breaking, like everything hinges on something he’s not sure he can do.

The question’s been heavy on his mind for so long he’s not sure he can ask it.

Phil’s lips press against the top of his head, linger there so long Dan can count the seconds.

He’s crying when Phil draws back, smearing his tears against Phil’s bare chest.

“What did you wanna ask?” Phil whispers, the words so soft they get lost in Dan’s hair.

Dan crumbles, clings, cries.

Phil _cares._

“Do you think I deserve to know why?” He swallows, chokes when he tries to breathe. “To know why I’m sick?”

Phil’s grip around him goes so tight it hurts. He’s not breathing anymore, and then he is, with an exhale that seems to buckle through his chest, shuddering in the silence of the room. He drags Dan up, a little rough, almost desperate, lifting his head from his chest so Dan can see his eyes in the darkness.

Light has started to come in through the blinds, he realizes.

It’s gleaming in Phil’s eyes, in everything that’s welled there.

“Of course you deserve to know,” he says. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you deserve to know?”

Dan’s breath catches. He’s never heard Phil swear.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “No one’s ever– I’ve never been– I’m not worth it. To them.”

Phil’s hand clenches around his arm. “To who?”

The words go straight to his chest, to every memory he tries not to think about, to every moment with Phil he tries not to question. He almost buckles forward. His head dips. Phil’s fingers drift up his neck, making pain burst at the base of his skull, before settling against the back of his head.

He presses Dan’s face into the crook of his neck and _holds_ him.

“My doctors,” Dan croaks against his skin. “My– my parents.”

Phil’s chest collapses again, another breath Dan’s sure he didn’t mean to let out. He keeps cradling Dan’s head, wrapping his other arm securely around Dan’s back, and presses another kiss to the top of his head.

“They’re wrong,” he says. “They’re– they’re bad. You deserve to know. Of course you deserve to know.”

Dan’s still crying when he lifts his head. His neck aches with it. His chest will hurt for days, recovering from this. He can’t makes himself care.

“I think I want to go see my doctor,” he says, a whisper. He hasn’t wanted to see anyone about his problems in so long, it almost feels like a lie. “He’s new and I– Maybe he’ll think I’m worth it, right?”

He sound so broken, even to his own ears.

He feels like he’s thirteen again, sitting across from a man with a stethoscope, a man he’d trusted, saying _it’s going to get better, right?_

Phil nods. “Yeah, he should. You are,” he says. “You should, go see him.”

“I–”

Dan swallows. His cheeks are sticky and wet, his whole body shaking and weak. He pushes himself off Phil’s chest so he’s on his knees, holding his own head up, arms threatening to buckle under his weight.

“I don’t wanna go alone,” he says. “I– Would you come with me?”

Phil’s eyes go soft. He lets go of Dan’s waist, cradles his jaw instead, fingers drifting across the jut of bone there.

“Dan, if you want me there, I’m there, okay?”

He nods. He feels almost numb. No one’s ever been so sure before. “Okay.”

His whole body seems to give up then. He feels like he could sleep for a week and still wake up exhausted, feeling like his insides are shaking. Another tear rolls down his cheek.

This time, Phil wipes it away with his thumb.

“I’ll be there,” he repeats.

Dan didn’t know he needed to hear again, but he feels the promise through his entire body, warm, brilliant in his chest.

“Okay,” he says again. And then, “Phil?”

“Yeah?”

Dan doesn’t say _thank you_. It feels silly, inadequate, when Phil’s looking at him like that, holding him like he is. He reaches up, combs his fingers through Phil’s hair, the sleep-induced quiff that makes Dan’s heart leap.

He leans down, and presses a kiss to Phil’s forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Come say hi and let me know what you thought on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	24. Chapter 24

Dan wakes up to Phil’s clock telling him it’s past three in the afternoon.

He’s curled up around Phil’s pillow, face squished against bright blue fabric. His hips ache, his body twisted awkwardly so his chest is flat against the mattress and the duvet is tangled between his legs. It takes him a long moment to finally keep his eyes open.

Sunlight filters in through the slats in his blinds. It’s enough to make his eyes burn.

Distantly, he wonders if staying in a dark flat is making the sensitivity worse. And then he tries to move, and his body aches so much he can’t make himself care.

It takes him another long moment to prop himself up on Phil’s pillows, neck crooked against the headboard, ribs aching at the curve of his spine. His phone, he realizes, is resting on the nightstand, though Dan’s almost positive he’d left it in his own room.

He reaches for it, fingers shaking. 

His body’s always weak after too much sleep.

Too much sleep that never feels like enough.

Messages from Phil light up the screen when he manages to turn it on. A smile quirks at the corner of Dan’s lips.

_ Phil: Sorry I had to go to work again. You were asleep when I left. Hopefully you get some rest. Text me if you need anything. _

_ Phil: Sweet dreams. _

_ Phil: Work is so boring today :[ It’s only lunch time and I wish I could go home _

_ Phil: I’m going to try and leave early if I can. _

_ Phil: You’ve been sleeping for a long time I hope you’re okay. _

_ Phil: Text me when you see these? _

There’s a stab of pain where Dan bites his lip, another between his ribs where guilt twists in his gut. He tries not to imagine Phil in his office, checking his phone between bouts of editing, worrying.

Perhaps even catastrophizing.

His wrists are weak. His body always is after too much sleep seems to drain his energy and make his muscles forget how to function. He has to balance his phone against his knees, poking the screen with his index finger to text back, because  _ not  _ responding isn’t an option.

He can still picture how pale Phil had gone when they’d hooked Dan up to machines in A&E.

And he’s not sure he’ll ever forget the waver of Phil’s voice as he’d said  _ you look sick _ .

Dan swallows. He wishes Phil were here, were home, where Dan could curl up next to him and reassure whatever anxieties linger in his mind. 

For now, he sends a message.

_ Dan: jus woke up _

_ Dan: ur bed is comfy i slept to much _

It only takes a second for Phil to respond. Dan’s phone vibrates, sending a shot of pain down his leg, with the notification.

Still, he smiles, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest.

_ Phil: Then you can sleep there whenever you want ^.^ _

\---

He’s curled up on the sofa when Phil gets home. 

The door clicks open, then closed. There’s the thud of Phil’s bag against the floor, and then of him kicking off his shoes. It’s a familiar routine by now, being wrapped in a blanket, sinking into the cushions, waiting for Phil to come towards him, for quiet conversations about their days.

Phil’s fingers comb through Dan’s hair.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Dan hums, head tilted back. There’s a dull tug at his scalp, but the comfortable warmth that spreads through his chest makes up for it. “Okay. Bored.”

Phil’s hand lingers there for a moment before he pulls away, stepping around the sofa to take the seat next to Dan. “Do you wanna play a game?”

“Can’t.” Dan pouts. “Wrists are having a bad day.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks into a half-hearted smile. His leg brushes against Dan’s. 

“How’s the rest of you doing?” he asks.

“Sore,” says Dan. “It’s a resting day.”

Phil nods. “Okay,” he says, setting deeper into the cushions as though it means he has to rest too. Maybe it does. Dan can’t think of a day when anything besides work has prevented Phil from keeping him company.

He untangles himself from his blanket some, just enough to free a corner of it and drape it over Phil’s lap. He shifts closer, so their thighs press together, the dip of the cushion making his spine twist so he’s angled towards Phil. In a little while, they’ll probably end up pressed together.

They always do, it seems.

On the TV, the movie he’d been watching is in the midst of a fight scene.

Phil’s hand rests on his knee under the blanket, and Dan smiles.

\---

Bedtime comes after a movie. 

The last scene is a predictable kiss, out in public, spurred by confessions. It suits the film, cheesy and poorly acted, but easy to watch without his breath hitching, chest burning. And maybe Dan doesn’t mind the lackluster plot or mushy dialogue so much.

The screen fades to black. 

Perhaps the warmth in Dan’s chest has to do with more than the blanket wrapped around him.

Or Phil’s arm, draped over his shoulders, holding him close.

His throat has recovered enough to swallow popcorn. The empty bowl sits between them as the credits roll, and the blanket is spread across both their laps. Dan doesn’t remember slipping his hand beneath it to rest it on Phil’s thigh, doesn’t remember when he started wishing he could touch bare skin, instead of pyjamas.

Phil’s hand drifts, tracing a circle against Dan’s arm, his touch just light enough to sting.

“We should sleep,” he says, a whisper over the quiet credit music.

Dan hums, because he doesn’t want to agree. The TV’s promise of another, similar film sounds far better than curling up in his bed with a too-scratchy duvet and too many pills failing to make him fall asleep.

The days after a flare never let him fall asleep.

He lets Phil untangle them anyway, watches him take the bowl to the kitchen along with their empty glasses of ribena. His phone tells him it’s almost eleven, late enough that he’s due for another dose of paracetamol, before the pain erupts in his ribs again.

Phil comes back to the lounge with a smile. He doesn’t say a word as he holds a hand out to Dan to help him stand. 

And he doesn’t let go, even when Dan’s steady on his feet.

“You said my bed’s comfy, right?” he says, not even looking at Dan as he turns off the TV.

“Yeah?”

Phil’s still smiling, the comfortable kind, when he says: “Do you wanna sleep there again tonight?”

“What about you?” says Dan.

“I could take your room, if you’d prefer,” says Phil. “Or, I mean, we could share again. I didn’t mind.”

It’s impossible to tell, in the darkness of the lounge, if his cheeks have gone pink, but Dan can imagine it, can feel his own face going warm. 

“I didn’t mind,” he whispers.

Phil squeezes his hand. 

Dan gets his pills from his room. His blanket is still resting on Phil’s bed, tangled with the duvet where Dan left it that afternoon. He settles onto the side of the bed that had been empty last night, listening to running in the bathroom, waiting. 

There’s a lamp on in Phil’s room. It feels different, sharing a bed without darkness to hide them, without fatigue blurring their decisions.

And yet it’s the same, when Phil settles into bed next to him, curling up on his side. His arm settles over Dan’s waist, drawing him closer. There’s no space between them this time, Phil’s chest pressed against Dan’s back. They’re sharing one of Phil’s bright blue pillows. 

Dan wants to ask, suddenly, if this is for the sake of his poor sleep and aching bones. 

But Phil mumbles: “You’re warm.”

His hand is splayed across Dan’s stomach and his breath is hot against his shoulder, and it’s enough.

“Can’t talk too much,” he says. “Throws off my meds.”

“Mkay,” says Phil.

He holds Dan until he falls asleep to the thought that, a few years ago, he wanted nothing more than to be normal like the people in the film they’d just watched.

And now, he’s here.

\---

The next few days are largely the same.

They always are, when his body breaks, but it’s been a while since Dan’s life has let him just exist through his recovery. There’s no uni classes to drag himself to, or job where he needs to stand for hours, and no one pestering him about how sitting on the sofa all day will only make him weaker.

Dan wakes up in Phil’s bed, draped across a pillow, the pressure making his cheek and his chest ache.

He texts Phil with shaky, tired fingers. Phil always responds with smiley faces that have Dan burying his own grin in Phil’s pillowcase.

And then he ends up on the sofa, wrapped in his blanket with a smoothie Phil made for him, watching whatever show is playing. He scrolls through the guide, though he has the shows he’s searching for memorized. When he was young, he and his nan used to have a balance of cartoons and soap operas to fill the days he spent home from school.

This week, he watches old Doctor Who episodes out of order between news segments and talk shows.

When Phil gets home, it’s with quiet questions and a smile, his fingers running gently through Dan’s hair. Some days, they play video games, when Dan’s wrists are well enough for button pressing and motion controls. Others, they watch Buffy from Phil’s DVDs or movies they think the other should see. 

Dan thinks, as the week drags on, that his sensitized, pained nervous system has gotten used to the weight of Phil’s arms around him, the press of Phil’s body against his.

They order out for dinner and eat in the lounge, rambling about whatever’s on their minds that day.

And when the sky goes dark, it’s hardly even a question of where Dan will sleep. He settles against a blue pillows, tucked under a bright duvet. He focuses on the sound of Phil’s breathing to keep himself from getting lost in his own mind, until he eventually falls asleep.

\---

“Being sick is boring.”

It’s been too many days of staying in the flat, on the sofa, when Dan says it. His head is on Phil’s lap, and Phil’s fingers are in his hair, combing through knots that have formed since his last shower. There’s a movie playing on TV, one Phil chose and Dan likes, just not enough.

You can only watch so much TV before it gets tedious.

In the rush of trying to be an independent adult, Dan must have forgotten about that.

“Do you wanna do something else?” asks Phil.

“Like what?”

Phil doesn’t answer. Dan knows why. He’s been in this body for years, and even he struggles to think of something that won’t have him huddled in bed the next day, restarting the recovery process that never seems to make him healthy enough.

On the TV, there’s some car chase scene that Dan watches just to fill the lull.

“We’ll figure things out,” says Phil. “Things that we can do.”

Dan hums, smiling, because he still doesn’t have words for the warmth the floods his chest. He’s not sure Phil needs them, not when he smiles, too, and goes back to running his fingers through Dan’s hair.

On screen, there’s another action sequence, and some emotional scene that Dan knows would have more impact if he actually paid attention. It feels too late to get invested now, though, with all the exposition passed. He looks up at the shadows under Phil’s chin, where there’s a hint of stubble, at the crook of his nose and sweep of his eyelashes.

It’s hard to tell, but he’s pretty sure Phil’s not paying attention, either.

He almost asks to call off the movie so they can put on something that requires less brain power.

Phil looks down at him before Dan can speak, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I have an idea,” he says. “Why don’t we watch something different?”

“Buffy?”

He shakes his head. “Something new.”

With gentle hands, he helps Dan sit up again, settling against the cushions and tucking the blanket around his shoulder. Dan watches Phil go into his bedroom and step back out, clutching his laptop to his chest. He sits down again, setting the computer on his thighs.

Phil doesn’t even look up when Dan leans back in, letting his head rest against the round of Phil’s shoulder.

He can see the screen from here, can watch the splay of Phil’s fingers as he types  _ youtube  _ into the search bar.

“You wanna watch cat videos?”

Phil’s shoulders bounce when he laughs. “No,” he says. “Have you really never watched youtubers before?”

“No?” 

Phil gasps, fake and ringing with laughter. “Your nerd card is revoked.”

“Oh is it?” Dan presses his smile against Phil’s shirt. “I’m really missing out on something everyone else is in on, am I?”

“You are,” says Phil, like he’s trying to be serious, but Dan can hear his smile. “Good thing I’m here to introduce you to this endless pit of entertainment.”

“Pit doesn’t make it sound that promising, to be honest.”

Phil knocks their knees together as he types  _ smosh  _ into the search bar. “It is, you’ll see,” he says. “This should be a good introduction.”

He clicks on one of the videos, and a logo being spray painted in fills the screen.

\---

Dan’s jaw hurts by the time Phil stops clicking on new videos. The laptop’s resting on the coffee table and Phil’s arm is draped over his shoulder. When the last video ends, Phil groans, leaning forward to start a new one, until Dan presses him back against the cushions.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles.

Phil squeezes his shoulder. “Your ribs okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just don’t want you to move.”

“Oh,” says Phil. “Okay.”

He draws Dan tighter against his side, and presses his face into his hair, just breathing there for a moment. Dan smiles against his chest. Somehow, over the course of their video marathon, they’ve ended up reclined against the armrest, squished together on the cushions. 

It’s a little tight, but comfortable, warm.

“When’d you start watching that stuff?” asks Dan.

“Uni,” says Phil. “I got, uh, pretty into it, I guess. I haven’t watched much recently, though.”

“Oh?”

He shrugs, just the shoulder Dan’s not lying on. “Just didn’t work out so much when I got my job.”

“Oh.”

Phil’s fingers drift up and down his arm. “I’m surprised you hadn’t really watched before,” he says.

“Really?” says Dan.

“Yeah.” He lets out a breath, a little too loud. “I just assumed you probably stayed home a lot, you know? And maybe spent a lot of time on the internet.”

Dan swallows. “Oh,” he whispers. “I, uh, wasn’t really allowed.”

“To go on the internet?”

“When I stayed home sick, yeah,” says Dan. “My parents thought it would convince me to go. They kinda gave up in my last year of college, though. I think they accepted that it wasn’t working.”

Phil squeezes his arm, quiet sympathy that makes Dan’s chest ache.

“But for years my nan would come over every time I was sick, and we’d watch daytime shows together,” he continues. “I didn’t really mind. She took care of me.”

“Good. That’s good, that she did,” says Phil. His voice sounds thick.

Dan tightens his arm around Phil’s waist. He wishes he could fill the silence by promising that it was okay, that it didn’t hurt. And maybe he could. He has good memories of days at home with his nan, eating soup she brought with her and laughing at the characters in her soap operas. But this is Phil.

He doesn’t have to pretend.

The hand at his shoulder tightens again. “Can I ask you something?” whispers Phil.

Dan nods.

“Do you still want to call your doctor?” says Phil. “I don’t want to pressure you but you mentioned it and haven’t done it yet, I don’t think, so–”

“I will.” Dan swallows. He’s pretty sure he can’t press himself closer to Phil, but he tries. 

“I’m just–” he takes a breath, letting it out when Phil presses his nose to the top of his head “—scared.”

Phil nods. “Okay,” he says. “What if I did it with you? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I think I could do that,” says Dan. “Thank you.”

Phil presses a quick kiss to his hair. 

Dan smiles, and lies there, in his arms, until they eventually go to bed.

\---

“You sure you’re ready?”

The day’s already bled into the afternoon when Phil asks, standing across from Dan at the breakfast bar. Dan’s phone is resting between them, lit up with his doctor’s office’s number and the clock ticking down towards the end of business hours.

He probably shouldn’t have put it off all day, but anxiety still burns in his chest. 

It’s been years since he’s bothered to see a doctor. It’s been even longer since one deemed it worthwhile to actually help him.

“You don’t have to do this today,” says Phil. “It can wait, if you’re not ready.”

Dan grabs the phone, and hits the call button before he can talk himself out of it.

It’s ringing in his ear when he whispers: “Pizza afterwards?”

Phil smiles. “I already ordered your favourite.”

Dan can’t help but smile back.

The phone rings three more times before a woman picks up. “Dr. Pearson’s office,” she says, far too chipper for the ache between Dan’s ribs. “How can I help you today?”

“I’d, uh, like to book an appointment?” he says.

“Okay. Can I get your name?”

He looks up at Phil to find him staring back, eyes wide, worry pinching between his brows. 

“D-Dan Howell,” he says to the lady on the call.

“Okay, Dan, and what’s the issue you’d like to discuss?”

His chest goes tight. He feels tears burn behind his eyes. Phil must notice, because he reaches across the counter and takes Dan’s hand in his. His thumb drifts back and forth across the ridge of Dan’s knuckles, 

“You got this,” he mouths. 

“Dan?” says the secretary.

He swallows. “I have some, uh, chronic health issues I’d like to discuss,” he says. “Chronic pain, mainly.”

“Okay,” she says. “I have an opening next Friday at four. Does that work for you?”

He squeezes Phil’s hand. “Friday at four?” he mouths.

Phil nods. “I’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” says Dan. “Thank you.”

“See you then,” she says. “Have a nice day.”

The line goes dead. Dan drops his phone, not caring that in clatters onto the countertop. Phil’s already reaching across it, his hand coming to rest on Dan’s jaw, thumb drifting across his cheekbone. He leans forward, drawing Dan close, and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

It’s soft and new and brilliant.

Phil’s smile is wide when he pulls away. Dan’s eyes trip down to his lips.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Phil’s eyes light up. “Pizza!” he says.

Dan chuckles. His heart is still racing long after he sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so sorry for the delay is posting this chapter. The fic fest, exams, holidays, and another project I was running too up far too much time but it's here now and I hope it makes up for it! (Also no promises but chapter 25 definitely shouldn't take as long.) Come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com) if you want!


	25. Chapter 25

Dan wakes up on Thursday to a heaviness in his chest.

He groans before he even opens his eyes. His face is squished against a pillow, his ribs pressed too harshly against the mattress. Stabs of pain burst between them, make his muscles spasm and send his breath escaping in a stutter. He has to count,  _ one, two, three, four  _ to keep it from happening a second time.

It eases some when he rolls onto his back. 

And he tries to comfort himself further by counting out how long it’s been since he’s been able to sleep on his stomach. Too long, probably.

He’s been getting better, though. Even staring at the bedroom ceiling through his tears, Dan knows that. Knows the he’s helped Phil with dinner the last few nights, and managed to handle the curtains being open for a few hours yesterday. 

His hand smoothes across his sternum, and he pokes at the painful spots in his sides until the sharpness dulls.

It’s enough to let Dan sit up, then stand on shaky knees. He tosses Phil’s pillow back to where it belongs and tucks the duvet into place to prove the voice in his head, wondering why he’s suddenly worse again, that he’s fine.

And to ignore the second voice, telling him  _ it’s anxiety that causes your pain,  _ over and over again.

His appointment is in a day.

Dan’s hardly slept for three.

He tries to swallow back a sigh. Whatever rush of adrenaline had dragged him out of bed has faded, left fatigue settling heavy in his bones again. He could drag himself to the lounge, curl up in his blankets and continue his new daily routine of watching people on YouTube for hours.

But his body aches and his eyes burn, and he crawls back into bed instead.

The voice in his head grows louder.

Dan grabs Phil’s pillow, clutches it ot his chest and presses his face against the fabric, breathing deeply.

It smells like Phil.

He holds it until he falls back asleep.

\---

The afternoon drags.

It’s past two when Dan wakes up again. The flat is still empty, the bed unmade again. He crawls out without bothering to fix it, makes himself a sandwich, and settles back on the sofa, where he can rest his head against the cushions and ignore the tightness around his heart.

Every time he turns on his phone, it’s too a notification reminding him he has an appointment tomorrow that has his muscles seizing, making it ache to breathe.

And to a reminder he half regrets setting, since he’s ignored it for days.

_ Call mum. _

There’s only a few hours to follow through with it now.

He glances back at the clock that tells him it’s just ticking past three. Twenty-five hours left, says the voice in his head. It sounds like the last GP he saw, who looked him in the eyes and told him to try  _ acting  _ like he had more energy, who told him it would help.

_ You should try it,  _ his mum had said afterwards.  _ You never know unless you do. _

Dan’s thumb swipes across the screen. He finds her contact, sucks in a breath, and hits the call button.

He doesn’t breathe again until she picks up on the third ring.

“Hi, Dan,” she says.

He hasn’t heard her voice since he decided to stay here. It feels like a lifetime ago, suddenly.

“Hi, mum.”

There’s silence for a long moment. He can hear her breathing over the line, low and steady, and wonders if she can hear the shakiness in his.

“How are you?” she asks

“I’m okay,” he says. “I, uh, have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

“Oh?” 

He swallows, nodding even though she can’t see him. “Just with my new GP, but I’m hoping he might be able to help me,” he says. “With, well, you know.”

“I hope he can.” 

She sounds sad. It’s been a long time since Dan’s heard that.

“Me too,” he says. And then, because he can’t handle the silence: “But, uh, I was hoping you could maybe help me figure out my medical history, to prepare? I don’t remember all of it from when I first got sick.”

Back when she was responsible for it, he doesn’t say. Back when anyone could keep track of all of it. 

“I’ll text it to you, okay?” she says. “I know your memory isn’t always the best, and your wrists tend to ache from writing.”

“Really?” He slams his mouth shut, the click of his teeth probably audible over the phone. “I mean, thanks.”

She chuckles, quiet, distant, like he can hear the miles between them. “I’m not always heartless, you know,” she says.

Dan’s breath comes out in a rush. Guilt bursts in its place, painful, bringing tears to his eyes. And he wants to tell her he never thought she was, but he can’t. She knows he can’t. He doesn’t even know what he thinks about her now, crying, hands shaking as he clutches his phone too tightly. 

“Can I ask you something?” she says. “Without you getting mad?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you doing?” she says. “I know you don’t think your problems are with your mental health, and I’m not implying they are–” the  _ not this time  _ goes unspoken “–but I know you’ve had bad experiences with doctors and you’re my son.”

His breath catches. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he wipes it away with his hand. 

This is his first appointment without her, he realizes. The first one in six years that she’s not driving him to, waiting outside or sitting next to him for the length of it. The first time she won’t smooth his hand over his knee in the waiting room, telling him it’ll be okay, that doctors can be trusted, even though they’d been proving otherwise for so long.

“I’m okay,” he says. “Phil’s coming with me.”

“That’s good,” she says, like she means it. “I am glad you have him, you know.”

He almost reminds her what she thought of him living with Phil last time they spoke, but his heart aches and his eyes are stinging and he doesn’t want to fight, not this time. 

“Me too,” he says. “He’s the best, mum.”

She sounds like she’s smiling when she says: “I’d love to meet him, one day.”

Dan swallows. He can hardly picture it, bringing Phil back to a house filled with terrible memories and people he still doesn’t trust entirely. And yet there’s a tug in his chest, a bittersweet image forming in the back of his mind. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does she, for a while.

“I should get going,” is what she ends up saying. “As long as you’re okay? I’ll text you your medical information in a little bit.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

She hums. “And Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“You should call your grandma. She misses her sofa buddy.”

He chuckles. It aches. Suddenly, he’s exhausted again. “Okay. I will,” he promises. “And mum?”

“Yeah?”

“No news is good news, okay? If I don’t call you after the appointment, I mean.”

“Okay,” she says. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead.

His head falls back against the cushion and his phone drops onto the sofa. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, and he’s not entirely sure he knows why.

Or maybe he just can’t untangle all the many, many reasons.

\---

Phil’s quiet when he gets home.

He takes the smoothie Dan didn’t touch and sets it on the coffee table before dropping onto the empty cushion. His arm is draped across the back of the cushion, his hip just inches from Dan’s, as he turns his gaze to the open laptop, lit up with another Smosh video. 

Dan’s been watching them mindlessly since his tears dried on his cheeks.

“This is a good one,” says Phil. 

It’s an older one, the production value a little cheaper and humour a tad outdated. Probably more similar to what Phil had watched back at uni, Dan thinks. He tries to imagine it, a younger version of Phil, one with longer hair and a slightly narrower frame, sitting in a uni room like the one Dan moved out of before coming here.

He hardly can. Maybe because his mind is still muddled, hanging onto words he said during the phone call, onto all the things he should have said but didn’t.

“It is,” he says, just as the video ends.

He doesn’t start a new one.

Phil’s fingers sweep across his shoulder. In Dan’s peripheral, he can see Phil turn to look at him, but he doesn’t look back.

“Are you okay?” asks Phil.

Dan swallows. There’s a lump in his throat, a pressure behind his eyes so harsh it aches. 

“Didn’t sleep very well,” he says.

Phil squeezes his shoulder. “I know.”

That makes the corner of his mouth quirk up. Of course Phil knows. He was there, arms wrapped around Dan as he fidgeted, tossed, and turned. His hands had combed through Dan’s hair, and his quiet questions about if Dan was okay were mumbled against his shoulder, his reassurance felt in his touch.

Phil usually falls asleep pretty quickly, Dan’s learned. Last night, he didn’t.

The hand at his shoulder tightens. Dan finally turns to face Phil.

“Is that all that’s bothering you?” 

His eyes are soft, almost sad, as his hand rubs gentle circles against Dan’s skin. He knows. He must know something’s up. Dan has to remind himself that Phil’s seen him after countless sleepless nights, curled up in soft blankets on the sofa and dozing when his mind gets too tired to keep racing. 

Today isn’t like that.

Dan reaches out to rest a hand on Phil’s knee, needing to feel grounded, as the first tear rolls down his cheek. Phil draws him closer, so Dan’s head is by his shoulder, his tears dripping down onto the fabric of Phil’s shirt.

There’s no pressure, none but the weight of Phil’s hand on his shoulder, when Dan says:

“I called my mum.”

Phil goes tense. “Oh,” he say. “How did that go?”

Dan swallows. “I don’t know.”

He really doesn’t. His chest feels too full with contradictions, the weight of past accusations crashing up against her understanding tone and he doesn’t know what to think anymore. He’s never been sure how to exist around her, not since pain first settled in his bones and she told him it was growing pains, it would pass, it would get better.

And it never did.

“I haven’t talked to her since I told her I was staying in Manchester,” he says, maybe as an afterthought, maybe because it’s felt heavy on his shoulders since he answered the phone.

“Was she nicer this time?” 

He nods. Another tear falls. “She’s texting me my medical history,” says Dan. “She offered, because she– she  _ knew  _ I had trouble writing and remembering.”

Phil hums. His breath has gone even again. His mouth is close to the top of Dan’s head. He sounds hesitant when he speaks. “It sounds like she cares.”

Dan feels that, sharp and painful in his gut. Another tear rolls down his cheek, and his breath catches, and Phil holds him tighter like he’s scared Dan will fall apart.

Maybe he will.

It’s been so long,

He’s been so that sure she doesn’t actually care.

Now, he doesn’t know what to think.

\---

His mum texts him.

Dan almost cries. His teeth dig into his lip and his ribs ache and he stares, wide-eyed, at the list of diagnoses and unexplained symptoms he’s had over the years. There’s the migraines they never treated at the beginning, the lightheadedness it took them four years to explain, the instructions to do more exercise that dot the whole six years that he’s been ill.

The first time he went to therapy, and the antidepressants they put him on, and the second time he went to therapy.

And every time he told his doctor he was  _ still  _ sick after that.

Phil’s hand lands on his wrist, gently pushing the phone from Dan’s line of sight. His voice is barely a whisper when he says: “Are you okay?”

Dan swallows. His throat aches.

Laid out like this, it doesn’t look that bad, a distant voice in his head that’s haunted him for too long tries to remind him that maybe he’s just making it all up. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. But Dan can remember the A&E doctor who turned him away because it was growing pains. Can remember the so many times his blood pressure was low before anyone bothered to point it out.

The time his doctor looked at him and said–

“Can we do something?” says Dan. “I want to– I need a distraction.”

Phil nods. In Dan’s peripheral, his phone screen goes black. The knot in his chest loosens, just a bit.

“Wanna play video games?” says Phil.

He shakes his head. “Wanna go out. It’s been too long.”

Phil’s brows furrow, like he’s about to point out that there’s a reason it’s been so long, about to warn Dan that he doesn’t want to make himself sick before such an important day. 

Except part of Dan does. He’s done it before, forced himself to be in pain because maybe that way the doctors would actually see that he wasn’t lying. Not that it’s ever worked.

“Please?” he says.

Phil squeezes his wrist. “Okay.” His thumb drifts across Dan’s, careful and comforting. “Where do you want to go?”

\---

Dan squeezes into his skinny jeans, even though the fabric burns his legs. He pulls a shirt over his head for what feels like the first time in forever. Though his knees are shaky, he bends down to tie his own laces, as Phil watches from where he’s leaning against the door.

“Are you sure about this?”

He reaches out, without a word, to help Dan stand again. 

“I’m sure,” says Dan. “And don’t worry, you won’t need to take me to A&E this time.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks up, and Dan knows he’s forcing it. He can feel his worry in the too-tight clench of Phil’s hand around his, the way his gaze trips over Dan legs when he wobbles as he stands. 

He squeezes Phil’s fingers, forcing a smile of his own, as he opens the door.

It’s warm outside. The sky’s going purple as the sun sinks below the city. Dan realizes, staring up at it, that he hasn’t left the flat since he trip to A&E, hasn’t enjoyed being outside in far too long.

If his joints would let him, he’d suggest they walk around a bit. Instead, he stares up at the clouds and reminds himself to spend more evenings, when the sun won’t burn his eyes, on their little balcony, just to feel the wind against his cheeks again.

Phil tugs on his hand when the cab pulls up in front of them. They pile in, side by side in the back seat. Dan doesn’t put on his seatbelt. He can’t be bothered to deal with the harsh rub of fabric against his ribs.

His chest is still tight, the quiet buzz of anxiety at the back of his mind growing louder. He can still feel his phone, heavy in his pocket, can still imagine the text he hasn’t yet responded to. He can remember their last movie night, laughing and gasping and falling asleep with Phil’s hands trying to massage the pain away.

They hadn’t even gone out last time.

Dan stares out the window and hopes he can keep his promise that it’ll be okay this time.

They slip out of the car at the cinema. Phil pays the driver. Dan leans against the wall as he waits, wondering if the lines inside are long. It’s been so long since he’s been to the cinema, he can hardly imagine it anymore. The screens usually hurt his eyes and the audio gives him a headache and he doesn’t care today.

“You okay?”

Phil’s smiling at him, standing by the door. He holds it open for Dan, and buys their tickets for a random comedy neither of them particularly wanted to see. He lets Dan go find a seat as he buys them popcorn, soda, and a chocolate bar to share. He hands it over, in the darkness of the theatre, with a smile. 

Between them, their knees bump together as the film starts. 

\---

They’re holding hands when it ends.

Dan’s eyes are starting to burn and his chest aches from laughing, but the voices in his head have dulled just enough that he can breathe a little easier. He doesn’t think about the appointment he needs to show up to tomorrow, or the doctor he hasn’t met yet who might dash his hopes all over again.

He stares at their joined hands as the cinema empties, smiling.

“You ready to go home?” says Phil.

Dan shrugs. He probably should give his spine a break by sinking into the sofa again, close his eyes against the bright lights of the city before a headache wells in his temples. But he doesn’t want to sit in the dark and wait until tomorrow, letting his fears return.

“Can we get pizza?”

“You up to walk?” 

He nods. Phil helps him to his feet and leads him out of the cinema. He knows Manchester better than Dan does, and tells a story about coming to watch movies with Ian when he was younger as they find the nearest pizza place. Dan listens, maybe more attentively than he needs to, to keep his mind from going hazy as the city moves around him.

There’s still a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Dan wonders if him of a few years ago would have believed that he’d end up here.

The restaurant they end up in is small and quiet, and they slide into a booth in the corner of the room. Dan sinks back against the cushion, realizing that Phil’s smiling, too.

His chest feels warm. His fingers twist in the tablecloth, because part of him misses holding Phil’s hand.

“Thanks for tonight,” says Dan. “I had fun.”

Under the table, Phil knocks their feet together. 

“I did too,” he says. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr [@huphilpuffs](huphilpuffs.tumblr.com)!


	26. Chapter 26

Dan’s awake when Phil leaves for work. 

He’s been awake most of the night, drifting in and out consciousness in that vague way that leaves his memory so uninterrupted he’s unsure if he fell asleep at all. His brain is hazy and his muscles ache, a distant voice in his head telling him maybe it’ll help, even as Phil frowns and helps him stumble to the sofa from the bed.

His laptop is sitting on the coffee table. The remotes for the TV and the Wii are lined up neatly within arm’s reach. There’s a smoothie, a dose of paracetamol and a bag of crisps Dan probably won’t touch even if his blood pressure falls and his head starts to spin.

He sinks back into the cushions, Phil’s hand skimming across his shoulders. He doesn’t pull away, even once Dan’s head is tilted back against the sofa, his whole body sagging as he loses the energy to hold himself upright.

Phil’s frowning. Dan knows without asking that he doesn’t want to leave.

“You gonna be okay?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks up. “I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

Dan tries to smile back. If he had the energy, he’d shrug. “‘m just gonna distract myself with YouTube and try to sleep.” What he doesn’t say is that maybe that way, he’ll manage to avoid the anxiety of the day.

Phil nods. He reaches up to run his fingers through Dan’s hair, messy and matted. “Text me if you need anything, okay?” His thumb rubs gentle circles against Dan’s scalp. “I’ll try to get home as early as possible.”

“Okay,” Dan mumbles.

Phil’s hand drifts down the side of his face, thumb sweeping across the spot where his cheek goes rosy when he blushes. He presses a quick kiss to Dan’s forehead that makes his chest ache with the wish that Phil could just stay here, with him, on the sofa in their lounge like any other day.

It’s not any other day.

Dan snags Phil’s hand, wanting to hold him even though he can’t. He squeezes one, twice, before saying: “Go. I’ll be okay.”

Phil hesitates, just for a moment, before letting go. He offers half a smile and a shaky wave goodbye before slipping away.

The door thuds closed.

Dan’s already wiping tears from his cheeks.

\---

He spends the day sitting on the sofa. 

He doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, doesn’t even reach forward to change the channel, letting the TV play an endless marathon of  _ Doctor Who  _ episodes as he watches, vision hazy, and tries to focus on that instead of the anxiety tight in his gut. Every time the intro plays, his gaze trips over the word  _ doctor  _ and his breath hitches, and he tells himself to change it, but he can never quite muster the energy to snag the remote.

The exhaustion from a sleepless night has settled deep in his bones. Dan spends the day drifting in and out of consciousness, napping in the hazy way where it feels like time is still passing, even as he sleeps.

He must be half asleep when Phil gets home, because he jumps when the door clicks open. His vision’s out of focus. He blinks away the blurriness as Phil’s footsteps sound through the lounge. The cushion next to him dips, and Phil’s hand lands, gentle, on the top of Dan’s head.

“What time ‘s it?”

Phil’s chuckles. “Right around two.”

“You’re early.”

“Boss said I was being useless and sent me home,” says Phil. “Apparently I worry about you too much.”

Dan’s chest goes stupidly warm at that. He feels a sleepy smile quirk at the corner of his mouth and he leans into the press of Phil’s hand. Part of him wants to say there was no reason to worry, that Phil should have stayed at work like a good employee who hasn’t taken too many personal days since Dan came into his life.

But he can’t bring himself to lie. 

Phil’s home, and Dan’s mind is already more at ease.

He pats the cushion next to him, shifting towards the opposite armrest so Phil can slide into the empty space. His hand falls to rest on Dan’s shoulder, pulling him closer, until Dan’s pressed against Phil’s chest, listening to the quiet hum of his heartbeat.

Dan sucks in a breath. It comes out as a sigh, relieved and content.

On the TV, a new episode has started. The intro plays again. The words  _ Doctor Who  _ flash across the screen. 

Phil’s hand tightens at his shoulder, just for a moment, and Dan realizes, again, that he’s anxious too.

\---

Three o’clock seems to sneak up on them. 

By 3:15, Dan can’t really put off getting ready any longer. He drags himself from the sofa, Phil’s hand a careful pressure at his back, and trudges to his bedroom. His knees feel weak and his hands are shaking and nausea churns unpleasantly in his stomach like it hasn’t in a long while. 

Dan’s been avoiding doctors for a long while. Part of him is starting to feel like he should have kept it up.

He tugs on a pair of skinny jeans because they’re the only trousers he feels comfortable leaving the house in, then slips one of his few button-downs over his shoulders so he doesn’t have to pull a shirt over his head. His fingers are quivering too much to slip the buttons through their holes. With a sigh, he leaves it, shirt hanging open over his chest so he can watch the way his collarbones protrude against his skin when he reaches up to tame his hair.

It’s messy and matted and gross, but it’s too late for Dan to care.

Phil’s sitting on the armrest of the sofa when Dan steps back out of the bedroom, staring at the door, leg bouncing, hands fidgeting in his lap. He doesn’t ask about Dan’s shirt, just reaches up and clutches the open fabric, drawing Dan closer before he starts slipping the buttons into place without a word.

His hands are shaking, too. Not as badly as Dan’s, but still.

Dan reaches up to grab them once Phil’s done up most of the buttons, leaving the ones by his throat undone so the collar of his shirt doesn’t scratch the sensitive skin at his neck. He squeezes, holds on tight to steady them both, to ease some of the concern drawing at Phil’s brow.

The response is a half-hearted smile, a tug against his grasp. “Can I–?” says Phil.

Dan’s not quite sure what he’s asking, but he nods anyway.

He lets Phil’s hands slip from his. They skim along his sides, just below his ribs, before joining at his back. He draws Dan in until he’s pressed against Phil’s chest, head tucked against his shoulder, arms coming up to wrap around Phil’s neck and hold him close.

Phil’s breaths are warm against his skin, steadying. “No matter what happens,” he says.

Dan nods. “I know.”

Fingers skim up his spine, towards spots that ache to the touch, and back down again. Phil’s grip strengthens, his hold tightening so it’s almost painful where his arms press against Dan’s ribs, and yet Dan doesn’t care. He needs this, this touch that feels weighted with so much. 

It’s been so long since anyone’s comforted him before an appointment. He needs that, too.

“I wanna tell you,” says Phil. “So you don’t doubt that I believe you, no matter what the doctor says, okay?”

Dan’s eyes burn. He squeezes them shut before the tears can fall, pressing his nose so tight against Phil’s shoulder that it hurts. His throat’s gone tight and his voice sounds strained, so quiet he thinks Phil probably feels the word more than he hears it when Dan mumbles: “Okay.”

Phil squeezes him, almost too tightly, one last time before his arms slip from around Dan’s waist and he leans back.

His fringe is full of gaps, half pushed away from his face. His hands fidget with the pockets of his jeans. His gaze keeps flicking around the room like he thinks they’ve forgotten something, like he’s looking for an excuse not to leave. It flicks back to Dan’s, and his eyes are wide and worried and caring and Dan’s chest aches with it.

Every part of him wants to push Phil back against the sofa, curl up against his side and cuddle until he’s forgotten that the rest of the world exists. It’s not like the doctor will help anyway.

Except this one might, says a voice in his head. The hope makes him nauseous.

He reaches out and takes Phil’s hand in his, not sure if he’s doing it for Phil or for himself. For both of them, he thinks, when Phils fingers slip between his and he holds on tight.

Even if the doctor doesn’t help, he’ll still be here. He’ll hold Dan afterwards, let him cry in a way no one has for years. Because he cares. 

His thumb drifts often Dan’s, and Dan thinks he might more-than-care. It’s terrifying. It’s amazing.

“Thank you,” says Dan. 

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks up. He stands, drawing Dan with him. He doesn’t ask if Dan’s ready to go. Maybe he knows Dan never will be.

\---

The doctor’s office waiting room is just like the ones back in Wokingham.

It has the same white walls and stupid posters about cholesterol, and when he walks up to the desk to check in, the woman smiles at him in the same way they used to smile at his mum when he was little. It makes him want to throw up, makes him want to flee.

“Hello,” says the lady. She looks nice. Dan almost feels bad for being annoyed at her.

“Hi,” he says. It sounds choked. “I have an appointment at four for Dan Howell.”

She nods, turning to do something on her computer. When she looks back up, it’s with a perfect receptionist smile. “You’re all checked in,” she says. “A nurse should be out to get you in a little bit. Please take a seat.”

“Okay,” he says.

Phil’s hand nudges his leg. He follows behind Dan as he goes to sit in the farthest corner of the room, away from anybody who may be looking, from children with runny noses and old people who think he’s perfectly healthy and has no reason to be here. He doesn’t want to deal with any of them. Doesn’t want to deal with any of this.

“I wish we could go home,” he whispers.

Phil’s hand presses against the base of his spine, just for a second. “I know,” he says. “Soon.”

Dan tries to hum, but it gets lost in his throat. He drops onto the seat, bones feeling heavy. He’s already too tired to deal with them, exhausted by all the anxieties rushing through his mind. His head falls back against the wall behind him, eyes falling closed. 

His leg starts bouncing. It takes too much energy to sit still.

Phil’s hand settles on his knee. He doesn’t try to hold it down, the way Dan’s mum used to, mumbling about how it was annoying. He just rubs circles against the jut of Dan’s knee cap and waits with him.

A nurse steps out from behind a door and calls someone’s name. Dan listens to the shuffle of footsteps, the quiet murmur of voices, and tries not to think about how he might be called back next.

Phil squeezes his knee. “You want me to go in with you, right?”

Dan doesn’t even worry about how pitiful he sounds when he mumbles: “Please.”

\---

The nurse comes out and calls his name with a smile.

She measures him and weighs him and leads him into a little room where Phil lingers awkwardly by the door. She asks if he smokes, if he’s had caffeine in the last hour, if he’s diabetic, and jots little notes down as he answers. He bites his lip as he watches her grab the blood pressure cuff and reach over to wrap it around his arm.

It’s already too tight. 

“Can you keep your leg still?” asks the nurse. She’s still smiling, securing the velcro. “Moving can make the reading inaccurate.”

He nods, pressing his heel hard against the floor, letting his head fall back against the chair. Phil’s staring at him from the doorway, offering a crooked smile as the machine whirs to life.

Dan tries to match it, but his hand is already prickling numb, his arm throbbing under the pressure. There’ll be a bruise there tomorrow, streaks of faint purple that’ll be tender to the touch for a few days. It’s stupid, he thinks. His whole body is stupid. 

The pressure around his arm fades. Dan’s breath comes out in a gush. 

“You’re pulse is high,” says the nurse. 

Dan turns. His visions blurry, eyes damp with tears. “It always is,” he says. “High pulse, low blood pressure.”

She looks skeptical, but she tugs the cuff from around his arm and sets it aside without a word. He watches her jot the numbers down on her slip of paper, and stands when she does. Phil lingers at the door as she slips past him, and reaches for Dan’s hand when she’s looking away.

His fingers are still tingly and numb, but he lets Phil hold them anyway.

\---

The nurse leaves them in a little room.

The walls are white and covered with anatomical posters of hearts and intestines and sinuses. There’s a magazine rack in the far corner and a bed covered in crinkly paper and a computer open to a login screen. Dan sits down in one of the chairs by the desk. Phil takes the seat next to him.

They sit in silence for long minutes, waiting. Phil’s still holding his hand, rubbing feeling back into his fingers.

He only lets go when the door opens and the doctor steps in. 

She’s smiling too. There’s a stethoscope draped across her neck and a pen hanging from the pocket of her shirt. She walks over to the desk, takes her seat and logs into the computer before turning to Dan, smile not faltering as she holds out her hand.

He shakes it, staring straight ahead, trying to blink his vision into focus.

“I’m Dr. Kissel,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, uh, Dan?”

“Yeah, Dan.”

She nods, just one quick bob of her head, and turns to Phil. “And you are?”

“Phil,” he says. “I’m Dan’s, uh, flatmate.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” says Dr. Kissel. She looks down at the slip of paper the nurse left, and scrolls through what Dan recognizes as his file on the computer. 

The last entry is from over a year ago. He’s been too scared to see a doctor ever since then. 

Part of him still is, still wants to run away and hide in the comfort of his couch cushions and fluffy blankets back home, when she says: “What can I help you with today?” 

He swallows against the tightness in his throat. It doesn’t help. “I have, like, chronic pain?” he says. It feels silly. She already knows he does. He knows she knows; she has years of complaints open right in front of her. “I have for a while, but it’s still not getting better and I–” 

Dr. Kissel nods, like she’s listening. “You?”

Dan just shrugs. Phil reaches over and rests a hand on his knee. Dr. Kissel hums, the sympathetic kind only doctors do, usually when they’re about to tell Dan he should try thinking happy thoughts and eating healthier and that will solve all his problems. 

It makes his stomach lurch. His gaze flicks to the bin, to the door handle, and back to Dr. Kissel when she speaks again.

“Can I ask where you have this pain?”

“Uh, everywhere?” says Dan. His leg is bouncing again. He clenches the arm rest to keep from cursing himself for saying something so dumb. “I mean, uh, it’s worse in, like, my chest and my head and stuff but like, it happens everywhere.”

She nods, again. “I see you’ve had these symptoms for a long time,” she says, scrolling through his file without reading a word. “Since 2004?”

“I’d just turned thirteen so, yeah, I guess.”

Phil squeezes his knee. Dan’s not sure if it’s in comfort or surprise. He doesn’t look over to check, isn’t sure he could without tears welling in his eyes, without stress stealing his breath.

“And I saw you’ve been treated for depression in the past?” says Dr. Kissel.

The tears well anyway. Dan blinks them away, swallows even though it hurts. “Uh, yeah. Just, like, therapy and lifestyle changes and stuff,” he says, voice low and shaky. His leg is bouncing so much his foot feels almost detached, just edging on numb. 

Dr. Kissel glances down at it, so Dan forces himself still. “Did it help at all?” she asks.

“A bit, I guess? But only with my mood,” says Dan. “It was, like, a really hard time in my life, and it helped me cope, but, like, the pain didn’t get any better.”

She hums again. His chest goes tight.

“I don’t think it’s just depression,” he blurts.

Dr. Kissel offers a smile, reassuring and kind. “Neither do I,” she says.

Dan almost stops breathing, gaze flicking to the computer screen, landing on an entry from forever ago about how his trouble swallowing was probably due to anxiety. He stares back at Dr. Kissel, finds her looking at him like she understands that he needs a moment, that his whole world has suddenly shifted under his feet.

It’s been almost seven years.

Finally, a doctor looks at him and says: “I’d like to do a physical exam before deciding what to do next. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I– yeah, that’s fine.”

“Okay. Can you lay down on the exam table for me?”

He nods, standing, Phil’s hand slipping from his knee. Dan climbs onto the exam table, the paper crinkling under his weight. His shoulder blades press against the cushion, his legs dangling awkwardly off the end. He realizes, suddenly, that he was shorter last time a doctor had him lay down for an examination.

He can hardly remember the last time a doctor did more than shine a light down his throat.

Dr. Kissel comes over. “Tell me if anything hurts,” she says, and then presses her hands to his stomach, just beneath the splay of his ribs. 

He hisses at the pressure, doesn’t tell her it hurts. He’s pretty sure she knows.

Her exam is thorough. She presses against his whole abdomen, skims at the gaps between his ribs. She examines his spine and his elbows and knees and has him sit up to test his reflexes like they used to when he was a kid. She looks into his ears and mouth and nose and doesn’t say a word the whole time. 

She shines a light in his eyes and has him follow it with his gaze. She has him press against her palms with his own. She has him close his eyes and touch his finger to his nose like he’s seen people do on TV.

“This is just a basic neurological exam,” she says. 

No one’s ever done one of those before.

He returns to his seat after a while, muscles tired and aching, skin burning from her touch. His hands shake as he buttons his shirt back up, but he doesn’t want to ask for Phil’s help with the doctor watching him.

Dr. Kissel smiles at them both when she sits back down. “Okay, so I’m not super concerned that you have something life threatening,” she says, “but I do want to order some tests so we can figure out what’s causing your pain and try to help you out.” She clicks her pen, tapping it against the edge of her desk.

Dan nods. “Okay.”

“I’m going to order some blood work, an MRI of your head and spine, and an ultrasound of your chest to make sure your chest pain doesn’t indicate something more serious, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“The hospital should be in contact with you to book your tests, and I’ll call you as soon as I get all the results,” says Dr. Kissel. “I know it hasn’t been easy, so we’re going to try and figure this out.”

“Yeah,” says Dan. “I– Thank you.”

Dr. Kissel smiles. For the first time, he actually feels like it’s genuine. “You’re welcome,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.”

\---

He gets five steps outside the doctor’s office before it all comes crashing down. 

His whole body is exhausted, sore. The sleepless night and anxious morning and everything that’s happened since weighs heavy on his chest and his steps falter, breath coming out in a shudder. His shirt is crooked and his jeans are too tight and the first tear falls, standing right there in an empty hallway.

Phil’s hand slips into his, tugging gently. He leads Dan to the men’s room, where the lights are too bright and a mirror lets him see all the red splotches on his face.

He wipes a tear from his cheek, but another chases it.

Phil tugs on his hand. His free one comes up to rest on Dan’s side, pulling him closer until his chest is pressed against Dan’s, solid and warm and steadying. Dan can’t help but reach up, wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck and holding on tight, pressing his nose into Phil’s shoulder.

It hurts. Everything hurts. But Phil smells like home and not like a doctor’s office and that’s exactly what Dan needs right now. 

Fingers skim down the length of his spine. There’s a brush of a kiss at his temple.

“That was good, wasn’t it?” whispers Phil. “Ordering tests is good?”

Dan nods, pressing his head even tighter against Phil’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he chokes. “It’s good.”

Phil kisses his head again, quick and gentle and soothing. “Then why are you crying?”

A sob breaks through Dan’s chest. He muffles it against Phil’s shoulder, squeezing as tight as his tired arms will let him until he’s sure Phil can feel every shudder of his breath and too quick beat of his heart.

His throat aches, words burning when he says: “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I know it's been almost 2 months since I updated, and I'm really sorry about that. I know I keep saying it (and all of you have been super nice and respectful and I appreciate it more than I can say) but uni's been really busy and this chapter was particularly hard to write. I've spoken before about how this story is based on my own experience with fibro and, well, much like Dan I have a lot of bad memories with doctors which made this chapter really emotional for me. I hope it lives up to all expectations for you all <3


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